


The King's Shame

by jhoom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (temporary) MCD, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blowjobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dub!Con, Frottage, M/M, Top!Cas, Torture, bottom!Dean, king!cas, medieval!au, older!Cas, peasant!dean, younger!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: Castiel has inherited the crown after years of turbulence. His family has not been good to their people, and Castiel has much to atone for. He works so hard to bring peace, but his attraction to a kitchen boy might throw all that he’s worked to build into jeopardy…





	The King's Shame

**Author's Note:**

> So here's the latest of my tumblr series. It started with a very prompt request: "Can you do a King!Cas and Peasant or servant!Dean?" It turns out that yes, yes I can. This has gone on waaay longer than anticipated (which is really par for the course with me), but I enjoyed it :)
> 
> As with all tumblr series that get moved to ao3, I have made no edits. I've put dividers between each of the original posts. I haven't gone back to edit, so there may be errors in grammar/spelling or in the consistency. I also am not an expert in the time period that this is vaguely set in, but it's only medieval-ish so I took some liberties where I wanted to.
> 
> If you'd like to come visit me on tumblr and see what my next tumblr series will be (hint: it's got some plant!cas and tentacles), I'm [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com/).

Castiel really shouldn’t be doing this.

He knows better. He saw his father and his older brothers do this enough times that Castiel thought he’d learned his lesson. The constant affairs and exerting their authority over everyone, it’s exactly what made his father so damn paranoid and what got all of his older brothers killed or banished.

Now Castiel’s king, and he’d sworn oh so faithfully to uphold the law and not take advantage of his people or the land.

But for the first time in his life, there’s something more tempting than his duty. There’s something, some _one_ , he wants more than his crown.

More than his life, if it comes down to it.

He wants Dean.

Dean is one of the kitchen boys. Not even a cook, he helps in the garden and does tasks like chop vegetables and clean the dishes. Castiel by all rights shouldn’t even know Dean exists at all. What does a king know of kitchen boys? But Castiel wanted to consult with his cook and saw him there, peeling potatoes.

No one should be that beautiful, ever, let alone doing such a menial task. Dean looked spectacular; hair matted with dirt, hands rough and calloused, skin tan and freckled from days in the field, and eyes that shone so brightly, it blinded Castiel to the rest of him.

Still, Castiel had no reason to ever see Dean again. So he’d seen a particularly handsome servant. What should that matter?

Except… except Castiel kept finding excuses to go to the kitchens and consult his cooks. And while he was there, if he happened to see Dean and start a conversation with him while he waited, well…

The head chefs clearly saw his preference, for they began sending Dean up with meals. He would serve the delicies, his constant presence only increasing Castiel’s desire for him.

Castiel cracks one night. He’s spent all day in meetings about an impending border conflict. He has a headache, he’s hungry and worse yet, he’s lonely. He drinks too much with dinner, that’s the real mistake. By the end when Dean drops off a generous helping of cherry pie, Castiel’s too tipsy for his own good.

“Stay,” he pleads, hand on Dean’s sleeve to hold him in place. Dean’s eyes widen and Castiel licks his lips. “The pie, this is too much for one person. Share it with me.”

“I have to help clean—”

“They’ll spare you if I tell them to,” Castiel says dismissively. Internally he winces, hearing his brothers, but outwardly he smiles shyly at Dean. “Please.”

Dean looks around nervously before his eyes land on Castiel’s crown. Castiel should let it go, should let _Dean_ go, but he sits there patiently and waits.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll stay.”

It quickly goes downhill after that.

Night after night, Castiel invites Dean to stay for dessert. They start a respectable distance apart the first time, with Dean on the opposite side of the table, but as the tradition continues, their chairs move closer and closer together until their feet brush under the table.

Castiel defends his actions to himself. If Dean were truly unwilling, surely he would speak up. And he does not seem so unhappy as he sits with Castiel and shares his dessert. This must be a fine treat for Dean, to eat such rich food that he would otherwise never have a chance to sample. Besides, Castiel is merely indulging in his company. He has not yet crossed any lines he truly should not, so what’s the harm?

The harm comes one winter’s night at dinner when Dean slides onto Castiel’s lap. He straddles his king as he feeds him bite after bite of chocolate cake. There’s no way he cannot feel the way Castiel grows harder with each passing moment. But then Dean shifts his hips and it’s obvious that he, too, is aroused and Castiel loses his tenuous hold on his restraint.

He sucks Dean’s fingers clean, and then Dean slides to the floor and sucks Castiel’s cock.

Castiel’s ashamed of himself, but not so ashamed that he stops it from happening again. And again. And again.

Their nightly routine shifts. They eat dessert and then Dean drops to his knees or bends himself over the table for his king’s pleasure. Castiel’s too lost, too taken by Dean that he knows he cannot stop himself.

“What do you wish for?” Castiel asks as he peppers Dean’s back with kisses. “Tell me, anything I can give you and I shall. You have but to name it and it’s yours.”

Dean stays there, chest pressed against the hardwood and Castiel’s release dripping down his legs. He’s silent so long that Castiel begins to worry that he’s misstepped somehow.

“My… my brother… he wants to attend school and become a scribe, but we have not the money for it…” The rest of Dean’s request goes unsaid.

Castiel feels ten times more guilty than he had before. Dean’s attention, his willingness to do as Castiel bid him, it was all for his brother. Whether it was his intention or not, he made Dean his whore.

“Of course,” he says stiffly. He allows himself one more kiss to the back of Dean’s neck before he pulls away and helps Dean up. “I’ll take the matter to my steward first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.” Dean’s smile is genuine, so genuine that Castiel finally realizes the others he’d seen were not. “Thank you, m’lord.”

“Of course, Dean.”

He watches Dean descend back down to the kitchens, a giddiness to him that Castiel’s never seen before. Finally, he acknowledges what he’s done to Dean. The awkward position he’s put him in this whole time, all because Castiel could not control his desires.

He would do better by Dean now, though. He would make sure his brother became a scribe. He would find Dean a better position at another castle. Surely one of his cousins or a noble of high standing could use another servant. Someone as hardworking as Dean would be an asset to anyone.

Yes, Castiel would move Dean to another castle. Somewhere close to his brother’s school.

Somewhere far away from Castiel, where the temptation of having Dean would not make him change his mind when he grew lonely.

Resigned to losing the one comfort Castiel had, he goes to bed and tries very hard not to think about green eyes and sandy hair.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, Castiel has much to do.

There’s the matter of finding both an acceptable school for Dean’s brother and finding a nearby noble who would be able to employ Dean. His first choices Dean’s brother are too far away from anyone to be acceptable, and his first choices in nobles are not close enough to any schools for them to be an adequate reason to uproot Dean’s life.

In the end, he settles on a modest school with a solid reputation in the vicinity of Lord Alastair’s estate. He knows little to nothing of Lord Alastair, except that he always pays his taxes on time and took no sides in the mini coup that lead to Castiel being placed on the throne. That’s not much to go on, but Castiel knows the estate is large and well managed; there will be room for Dean, and he will be able to see his brother.

And he will be out of Castiel’s reach.

His next task isn’t any more pleasant than the previous one. He summons his cook to him and demands that he keep Dean in the kitchens and not let him into the castle proper.

“It’s nothing he’s done,” Castiel adds quickly. “He is not to be punished or treated any differently than your other kitchen staff. I simply don’t wish to see him.”

The cook nods in understanding. Likely he thinks that Castiel has grown bored of Dean and doesn’t want the awkwardness of having his former lover serve him dinner.

In truth, Castiel could live a thousand years and he thinks not ever could he grow bored of Dean.

Which is exactly why he can’t stay. I’ve already taken more than I should. If he’s so near, how long until I can’t resist the temptation…

Mind made up, Castiel goes about the rest of his day and does his best not to let his mind wander to the kitchens…

~ ~ ~

There is still a week before Dean is set to leave, and it drives Castiel crazy.

Part of him wants to invite Dean to his bed for one last night together. Dean’s smile would surely be radiant, knowing how he’s secured his brother’s future. He was always so beautiful when he smiled…

But at least part of that smile would be because he’s leaving Castiel’s grasp soon. Castiel doesn’t think he could bear it, knowing that Dean is happy to escape. Or perhaps he would not see that smile at all, if he imposes himself one last time. Dean would see it as a burden he thought he’d rid himself of.

Instead Castiel arranges a hunting trip south. His sister lives in the woods a day’s ride south, the perfect haven where Castiel can wile away the time until Dean leaves.

The night before he sets out, he dreams only of green eyes and warm, plush lips.

~ ~ ~

Removing himself from Dean only increases his melancholy, but he supposes he should get used to it. He will never see Dean again, at least not if his resolve holds.

_It will._

_It must._

He dismounts his horse and hands the reins to a stable boy, waves off his guards and the servants in attendance. This is his sister’s home; he doesn’t need the formality of an entourage. Instead he leaves them to get settled and goes to find his sister.

“Castiel!” Anna calls in delight, stumbling to her feet and holding her rounded belly. If Castiel is quite lucky, his niece or nephew will be born before he returns home. “It’s so good to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well,” he says and steps forward. In spite of the bad mood that’s followed him for so long, he smiles. “I hope Lord Milton is treating you well.”

Anna laughs. “Oh of course he is. He knows what family he’s married into and how dangerous it would be to mistreat me.”

“I’m not father,” Castiel replies automatically, then winces. He used to believe that too, which makes his recent actions so much worse.

Before he can recover, Anna grabs his hands. “Cassie, what’s happened? What’s wrong? You look miserable.”

He can’t meet her eye. “I’ve done something,” he admits quietly. “Something bad.”

“Oh Cassie…” She pulls him onto the bench next to her and shoos away her maids.

It pains him to do so, but he tells his sister everything. About Dean, about his attempts to resist the temptation because he didn’t want to end up like their father and brothers, about his slow fall towards sin, and his attempts at redemption. Anna is quiet as she listens, barely says a thing, but her hands rest on his and show her silent support.

When he’s done, he looks at her with pleading eyes and hopes at least she can forgive him.

“It was a bad thing you did,” she says as she clicks her tongue. “Not so bad as I feared when you started, but not free of blame, either. I’m proud that you know you’ve made a mistake and are trying to fix it, but I think you should talk to this Dean. Apologize with your words as well as your actions. You owe him that.”

Castiel shudders. The thought of seeing Dean again for any reason makes him feel scared. “I can’t. I agree, I owe him that and more, but I— I can’t face him.”

Anna frowns, every inch of her face disapproving, but she doesn’t push the matter beyond, “I think you should, is all.”

They sit there, no longer King and Lady, but brother and sister; children again, quietly dreading the past and what it might hold for their future.

When Castiel can no longer stand it, he clears his throat. “Is your husband available to hunt tomorrow? I fear I’ll get lost in the woods and of course do not know the best places for game.”

She mercifully allows the subject change. “He knows full well that you’re here to hunt. He is ready at your convenience. It’s a shame you couldn’t have waited until after the baby’s born, or I could join you as well. I’m a much better huntsman than he is,” she says with a coy smile.

“I believe you.” His answering smile is weak at best, but it’s there.

“Come, let’s take go find that husband of mine. He’ll want to grovel like a good subject for at least a little bit before he remembers you’re family and he doesn’t have to.”

“Does he grovel to you?” Castiel teases.

“Only when he knows he should, as all good husbands do.”

It’s so very good to be with Anna again, that Castiel feels the weight on his heart lessen just a little.

~ ~ ~

The castle feels lonely when Castiel returns. It seems larger, lonelier. Like a tomb.

His days are long and monotonous without his evenings with Dean to look forward to, and dessert just isn’t as sweet with no one to share it with.

As if they can read his thoughts, his cooks try sending up other pretty boys entice their king. They all flirt shamelessly and pout when Castiel sends them away. He sends them all away, especially the ones with dirty blond hair and green eyes. Those ones he dismisses before they can even set down their trays of food.

It’s bad though his heart is haunted by Dean’s ghost, no reason for his castle to be, too.

Eventually they settle on sending a homely girl with a friendly smile. She quietly does her job and never says a single word to Castiel except ask if there’s anything else he needs. She’s unobtrusive and hard working, everything Castiel could want in a kitchen girl.

If only she were Dean.

~ ~ ~

_Lord Alastair,_

_The crown has received your request for more land allotments in the south. Lady Hannah has requested part of those tracks of land as well, so the matter will be discussed by the privy council meeting. We will review your respective team records and profits before making a final decision._

_I also thank you for your assistance in placing Dean in your castle. I trust he is doing well and fitting in?_

_His Majesty, King Castiel_

~ ~ ~

_Your Majesty,_

_My lands are nothing but profitable. I’m sure you are the council will see my request is reasonable and a stronger I’ve than Lady Hannah’s._

_The boy Dean does well. My cook is pleased with him. Thank you for the welcome addition to my household staff. I’m sure he’ll for in quite nicely._

_Lord Alastair_

~ ~ ~

_Your Majesty, King Castiel,_

_I am pleased to inform you that my wife and your sister, Lady Milton, has given birth to a son. If it pleases the king, we would like to name him Samandriel. We should also like to visit the court in a few months once Anna has recovered and the baby is bigger, to have him properly christened and to meet his uncle._

_Your Humble Servant,_

_Lord Milton_

~ ~ ~

_Lord Milton,_

_It pleases the king if it pleases his sister. I look forward to seeing you all when you come to visit, and meeting Samandriel. You are always welcome at court, and though I am of course eager to meet my new heir, please do not push Anna’s recovery or come before the baby is ready. Their health and happiness is more important to me. Time permitting, I will make the trip to visit you instead._

_Please pass on my love to my sister and my nephew, and know that I trust you to take care of both of them. You are a good man, a good husband to my sister, and will be a good father to Samandriel._

_Castiel_

~ ~ ~

_Lady Rowena,_

_I’m writing to inquire about a new student at your school, one Sam Winchester. He’s attending on a scholarship from the treasury and I would appreciate being kept informed of his progress. Should he ever be wanting, whether it be for clothes or school supplies, please do not hesitate to contact me._

_His Majesty, King Castiel_

_~ ~ ~_

_Your Majesty,_

_I never thought a humble school marm such as myself would find myself having correspondences with the king himself. Let me assure you, young Samuel does well. He excels at his studies, even though he started well behind his peers, and is one of my brightest students. Now that I know he has the king’s favor, I know this clever lad has a fine future in store for him._

_Though Samuel lacks nothing at the moment, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that the school had seen better days. Repairs to the living quarters would go a long way in improving the comfort of our young students, and the library is somewhat lacking of late. Any donations we received would be very appreciated, and it would free up my time and allow me to give students such as Samuel private tutoring to ensure they reach their true potential._

_Lady Rowena_

_~ ~ ~_

_Lady Rowena,_

_Please accept this chest of gold and this cart of books from my private library. Let it be known that the king values education and wants his subjects to prosper._

_His Majesty, King Castiel_

~ ~ ~

With all the letters he receives, especially if late, Castiel barely notices them. He reads and addresses each in turn, then turns his attention to the next. That’s how Castiel doesn’t pay much mind to this particular letter until it’s in hand and he’s about to open it.

The handwriting is crude and uneven, completely unfamiliar but clearly belonging to a peasant. There are few if any peasants who would write the king directly, yet the letter is clearly addressed to _Castiel, the king_ , with the inclusion of “the king” looking like an afterthought.

Castiel’s hands tremble as he reads it, his heart already knowing who it’s from.

_Your Majesty,_

_Thank you for helping Sam. It means the world to me that he’ll have a proper education and a trade that will support him and any family he chooses to have. I cannot thank you enough._

_But I find myself at Lord Alastair’s castle, and I cannot help but wonder, what did I do wrong? If it was something I did or said—_

There’s more to the letter, but Castiel cannot bear to read it. With a pathetic moan, he crumbles it up and throws it in the fire.

How could Dean think he did anything wrong? So lovely, so obliging, so sweet…

He writes back, writes the letter quickly and sends it before his better judgement can take over. He wants Dean to know that he did nothing wrong, of course he didn’t, that it was all Castiel’s fault. This is the apology Anna wanted him to make, and he sees now how much he’s pained Dean by not making it earlier.

When he seals the letter, he finds his stomach clenching uncomfortably. This is truly the end of his relationship with Dean; this letter that absolves Dean of any wrongdoing will mark the end of this chapter in Dean’s life. He will be able to start over fresh…

And free of Castiel.

~ ~ ~

Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered by the king’s attention. He’s the king, the one who brought the kingdom from the brink of ruin and stood up for the people against his own family. A hero, handsome, and he wants Dean, a nobody. Less than a nobody, even the kitchen staff forget he’s there half the time and few even know his name.

And he’d be a worse liar still if he denied having any ulterior motive when he noticed the king’s desire for him. Dean’s not above admitting, he saw an opportunity and he took it. His life is… well it isn’t terrible, but it’s by no means the life he wants for Sam. If there were even the slimest of chances that he could pave the way for Sam…

In the meantime, he’s gleefully content to enjoy the king’s attention. Even if it gets him no where, he thinks he would continue to encourage him all the same.

~ ~ ~

When he hears the news from Sam that he is to be a scribe, Dean is overjoyed. This is a great opportunity for Sam, and Dean’s pleased his brother will have a chance for something better than being a kitchen or stable boy.

“A royal scholarship,” Sam says in awe. “From the king! How do you think he ever heard of me?”

“Kings know all sorts of things,” Dean says dismissively. “He’ll want a smart lad like you in service of his nobles.”

Or ideally here in his own castle, where I can keep an eye on you.

“Well, I’m honored, however he found me.” Sam hasn’t stopped grinning from ear to ear since Dean came home. If Dean had ever for a moment regretted his relationship with Castiel, this would be enough to erase those moments of doubt.

Sam is worth it… and luckily Dean has not had cause to regret his nights with the king.

~ ~ ~

Dean’s confused when he finds out he’s to go to another castle, but his stomach flutters in excitement when he hears how it’ll put him closer to Sam’s school. Surely this is another gift from Castiel, a temporary move that will allow the brothers to stay close.

“I don’t understand,” Dean says.

“You’re to stay in the kitchens,” the cook says, barring the way upstairs to the castle proper.

Dean means to thank Castiel (and as subtly as possible to clarify when he will return home), but that evening he’s forbidden from serving the king.

“He’ll be expecting me,” Dean says defiantly.

“He’s the one who ordered you to stay put,” the cook counters with a hint of edge in his voice. “I know not why and I care not, but you are to stay here unless the king says otherwise.”

Confusion and shock are all Dean feels the rest of the evening as he watches a pretty girl head up with dessert in his place.

What is happening?

~ ~ ~

As strange as it is to find himself in Castiel’s castle one week and Lord Alastair’s the next, there’s little Dean can do. He’s been told to leave, the travel arrangements made, and he can hardly refuse another job since he’s seemingly been relieved of his old one.

Dean’s first day at his new (and hopefully temporary) home is a busy one. He’s introduced to the kitchen staff, shown around the servants quarters, and then set to work. He doesn’t meet Lord Alastair, but that’s hardly a shock. He doesn’t expect to see the man himself except perhaps from a distance. He’s a kitchen boy and nothing more, not someone of interest to lords. The fact that Castiel ever saw him was a complete surprise.

It’s nearly a week before he has a day off and arranges to meet Sam at a local tavern.

His brother is clearly doing well and thriving at school. He goes on and on about all that he’s learning, and Dean’s happy to see Sam happy.

“What about you?” Sam encourages. “How do you like Lord Alastair’s castle?”

Dean shrugs and avoids his brother’s eye. “It’s fine.” It’s not bad, but it feels like such a let down compared to how things were.

“Fine? That’s it?” Sam presses. “Do you not like it here?”

“It’s fine,” Dean says sharply, then sighs when he see Sam’s hurt look. He sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s only…” He worries his bottom lip and wonders how much he should say. “It’s happened so suddenly. We were settled in the capital, and now both our lives have been completely upturned and I don’t quite understand how or why.”

“And you miss being back home?”

“I suppose. It’s more the quickness of it. It is strange that the king would not speak to me or see me. I know I am nothing, and he is very busy. He was visiting his sister, but still I worry I did something to offend him. I hope he will write, or visit Lord Alastair so that I might see him soon—” Dean cuts himself off when he sees Sam roll his eyes. “What?” he asks defensively.

“You speak of him like you’re in love with him. The king, I mean.”

Dean flushes. He’s told Sam very little of his interactions with Castiel, only that he was honored with the chance to serve the king in person on many occasions. “I’m not— He’s the king. He has… a presence. If you’d met him, you’d understand.”

Sam snorts into his drink. “Right.”

“What?”

“You said the same thing about the knight Sir Lawless when you met him after a joust.”

Dean remembers how profoundly different his and Sam’s reactions to the knight had been and begins to wonder about his own feelings towards Castiel. More than fondness? More than thankful for what he’s done for Sam and the attention he paid dean?

Oh gods, yes, he thinks it is more.

“You’re why I got that scholarship, aren’t you?”

“Sam…”

“I won’t ask for details if you don’t wish to share them, but know that I thank you for anything you did. You needn’t have, but I do appreciate it.”

Dean doesn’t want to acknowledge any of this. His heart is already thundering in his chest at the realization that he genuinely cares for Castiel, and now all that he’s done, it’s right there, right at the edges of what Sam’s saying. It’s too much.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles. “I should get back to the castle soon.”

“And I should get back to the school. Lady Rowena can be strict and I don’t want to get on her bad side.”

The brothers hug and settle their tab, then part ways. Dean came to the tavern hoping to lighten the burden in his heart, and now he finds it’s heavier.

He needs to find a way to talk to Castiel.

~ ~ ~

Dean’s no scholar. He can read and write a little, though he doesn’t often let on as much. Peasants aren’t supposed to read, and honestly what use is the skill to him in the kitchens? What’s he going to do, read the shopping list or recipes that he already knows by heart? Besides, if he lets on that he can read and write, there’ll be uncomfortable questions that follow.

His family, both on his mother and father’s side, were nobles many generations ago. They fell out of favor or lost their wealth, or some combination thereof, and fell from their station to the squabble they now know. Bit by bit their lands and holdings disappeared, so that all they have left is an ancient name that no one even remembers. The very last of the Campbell money went to his mother’s very basic education, and she taught her boys to read and write. Some math here and there, whatever she could pass on to them before she died.

Dean’s had little use of that knowledge in his life, but now he’s glad for it.

The paper’s hard to come by, the ink harder still, but he after a lot of trading with the other servants, Dean manages to send a letter. One he spends hours planning out, writing each word slowly so that it’s at least legible.

_Your Majesty,_

_Thank you for helping Sam. It means the world to me that he’ll have a proper education and a trade that will support him and any family he chooses to have. I cannot thank you enough._

If Dean were a smart man, he’d end the letter there. He can hear his father’s voice in the back of his head, warning them that he is reaching beyond his station and presuming far too much. But then he remembers the look in Castiel’s eyes whenever the king made love to him, and he feels he has overstepped nothing.

_But I find myself at Lord Alastair’s castle, and I cannot help but wonder, what did I do wrong? If it was something I did or said, I will do all I can to correct the error. I miss the castle. I miss you. I thought— Never mind what I thought._

_If you no longer have it in your heart to protect my interests, I understand. The attention of a king is better served elsewhere than watching out for young kitchen boys who ought to know better._

_Forever yours,_

_Dean_

~ ~ ~

One evening the head cook gives Dean a calculating look, then sends him up with fresh bread for Lord Alastair. There’s nothing odd about the request, except that Dean’s covered in soot from tending the fires, so he thinks nothing of it as he goes.

“M’lord,” he says quietly as he places the wooden plate on the table. Dean turns to leave, but a hand on his arm keeps him in place. The grip is like a vice, too strong to be casually broken. “M’lord…?”

“So you’re the king’s boy, eh?” Lord Alastair licks his lips as he very obviously looks Dean up and down. “No wonder he liked you.”

Dean blushes but doesn’t answer. He is neither “the king’s boy” nor is he happy to have such attention from this man before him.

“You will serve me in all the ways you served the king,” Alastair says, his look for too knowing for Dean’s liking. He doesn’t let go of Dean’s arm. “Understood?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Dean says. He pulls his arm a little. After a moment, Alastair begrudgingly lets go.

“Good boy,” he says with a wide grin that shows yellowed teeth.

Dean nods and then walks back to the kitchens with measured footsteps so that he does not appear to be fleeing.

He will work the kitchens as asked. He will serve food, he will clean, he will cut and cook… but beyond that he will do nothing for this man. Whatever he did for Castiel beyond that, he was never ordered to. He offered that freely, though admittedly with some understanding of the advantages he hoped to gain.

Alastair has nothing that Dean wants. The man is nothing to Castiel, not in look or temperament. Dean’s given himself to a king; why would he settle for the likes of this man?

 _Please, Cas,_ he silently prays. _Call me home._

_And soon._

~ ~ ~

“Lord Alastair’s taking a liking to you,” says one of the kitchen girls, her face grim. “Good luck with that.”

This would startle Dean if he didn’t remember how acutely uncomfortable he’d been in the man’s presence but a day before. “Is he as bad as he seems?”

“Worse,” she whispers, looking around to make sure no one’s listening. “His favorites he showers with attention and gifts for a time, but then become sickly before disappearing altogether. Like they’ve just vanished. The steward claims they’ve found work elsewhere, or gone to stay with family, but not once has anyone seen them go or heard those men or women say so themselves.” She shakes her head. “It’s very mysterious, and we’ve learned it’s best to keep out of Lord Alastair’s sight lest he find a new plaything in us.”

“What else do they say?” Dean presses. “What other rumors?”

The girl, Alicia he thinks her name is, looks sick at the question. “Surely they’re not true. I don’t want to be spreading falsehoods about m’lord.”

“I’ll tell no one,” Dean promises. “And if he has taken a liking to me, as you say, should I not be prepared?”

She worries her bottom lip, but soon she’s overcome with a look of pity. “I suppose so,” she admits, then leans closer still over the potatoes they’re peeling. “What have you heard about Lord Alastair’s dungeon…?”

~ ~ ~

The post arrives a few days after that; every night Alastair has demanded Dean serve him dinner. Every night he’s had a dark and expectant look in his eyes, one that Dean pointedly ignores. He does his work as asked, but soon he fears that will not be enough.

Alastair wants from him, and Dean will be unable to deny him much longer.

Dean breaks the king’s seal, anticipation building as his fingers smooth the fine parchment. The king’s handwriting is elegant, the letters crisp in a way Dean’s never been able to achieve. That’s the difference between a king and a peasant, he supposes: a level of refinement that comes natural to one and is unreachable by the other.

The letter is short. Dean isn’t sure what he expected or hoped for, but it takes but the first sentence to know this is not it.

_Dean,_

_You have done nothing wrong. It is I who erred, and I who will act in any way I can to right that error._

_Your brother’s schooling is paid for and I shall see to it that he has a position at any castle of his choosing when he has completed his coursework. I will also make sure you have a home there as well, in their kitchens or stables or anywhere else you find suitable. If you should choose to seek your own schooling, I will make arrangements as I can. You have but to name your destination, and it’s yours. Any castle, and I will place you there._

_Any castle, save mine._

_With regards,_

_Castiel_

Dean sniffles and blinks to keep the tears at bay. Why would Cas— _Castiel_ do this? This makes it seem as though none of the care he’d taken to find this new job with Alastair was actually _for_ Dean. It’s Castiel, wiping his hands of their relationship. A mistake, a slight indulgence in someone who is so far beneath his notice that he regrets it.

Dean tears up the letter and casts it in the fire. He never wants to see such cowardly words ever again, not even to declaim the man who wrote them.

He takes out his final scrap of parchment and writes back angrily. All of the care he took in his first letter is gone. He will not mince his words, he will not hold back his anger or scorn. If it were not for what Alicia told him of Lord Alastair, he thinks he would not bother to write back at all… but he swallows his pride and begs the only man in a position to help him to do just that.

_Your kingship,_

_So be it. Then send me to **any castle** but Lord Alastair’s. I cannot bear it here. If need be, I’ll run away from this place. You may not want me, but I work hard and there are kitchens a plenty in the kingdom. I beg of thee, send me somewhere else._

_I fear Alastair is not the man he seems. There are rumors, and he looks at me like he would devour my soul whole if he could. While I appreciate being close to Sam, I would be more comfortable at another estate if returning to you is not possible._

_Your humble servant,_

_Dean Winchester_

~ ~ ~

Dean grows more anxious as day by day, no post arrives for him and as Lord Alastair seeks him out more often. It takes nearly a fortnight for him to realize the inevitable truth of the matter: Castiel will not answer him, there’s no letter coming, and he is on his own.

~ ~ ~

Misery is Castiel’s constant companion. Every day that goes by without more news from Dean tempts Castiel to call upon Lord Alastair. If he could but see Dean for himself and know he was okay—

He resists the urge. Dean wrote, Castiel wrote back, and the silence that answered is proof enough that Dean is happier without Castiel. He’s secured a better life for his brother and no longer has to do as Castiel demands… Of course he’ll never hear from him again.

~ ~ ~

“You’re miserable,” Anna says once her husband is out of earshot. She holds her young son close to her chest as he naps, the excitement of the trip wearing out the poor baby.

“I’m fine,” Castiel says dismissively. He _is_ miserable, but he’ll get by. His own happiness was never something that he accounted for, never something important enough to outweigh his responsibility to the kingdom. As long as his duties as king don’t suffer, it will continue to not be important.

“You’re not. You barely smiled the whole time we’ve been here. When Samandriel laughed, there was the ghost of a smile, but try as you might, nothing’s reached your heart. You haven’t been like this since the Tower.”

Castiel shudders, remembering all too well the treatment both he and Anna had been subjected to at the hands of their older siblings. He’d been strong for Anna’s sake more than anything else, but apparently she’d seen through him then just as she sees through him now.

“Cassie,” she says earnestly. “If this is about that boy…” She waits for him to deny it, and when he doesn’t, she continues: “You did not talk to him, did you?”

“I wrote him,” he says defensively, and turns away to avoid his sister’s disapproving look. “He hasn’t written me back.”

“How long?”

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s all he can do not to give the total truth. It’s been four weeks, five days, and nearly seven hours since he sent his letter to Dean.

“Over a month,” he says.

“Oh,” Anna says with a sigh. “That’s not good then.”

“I know.”

“Well, there’s nothing to be done. If he no longer wishes to be with you and if you have the restraint to let him go, then that’s that. I wish there was another way, but I fear if he’s made his decision, any effort on your part to persuade him to continue a relationship will look like coercion.”

“I know.”

Anna shuffles Samandriel in her arms to lean forward and press a hand to Castiel’s knee. “I’m so sorry. Is there no other, in the castle or elsewhere, that might tempt you?”

“No, there are none that hold a candle to Dean.”

“I’m staying here,” Anna says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “Until this dower mood of yours passes, Samandriel and I shall stay here to keep you company.”

“Anna—”

“Lord Milton will understand, and _you_ have no choice in the matter. Unless you plan on physically removing me from the castle, but I dare say you don’t have it in you.”

“I don’t,” Castiel says with a sigh. “It’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

“Who’s to say it’s all for you, hmm? Maybe I miss my big brother? Maybe I want my son to know the castle I grew up in as a girl? Maybe you should be saying thank you instead of trying to get rid of me.”

Knowing better than to go against Anna when she’s made up her mind, Castiel concedes. If anything, having Anna there _will_ brighten his mood and help him focus. Perhaps with her as motivation, he will finally be able to move past Dean.

_Not bloody likely, but I can try._

“Very well. Though don’t feel like you _must_ stay. If I bore you—”

“A very real possibility,” she says solemnly.

“Well, if I do, please don’t feel obligated to stay. I’m a grown man, and a king apparently. I can take care of myself.”

She gives him a look that questions that assertion. His hand self-consciously goes to rub at the day’s worth of stubble and he hopes the dark lines under his eyes aren’t _too_ prominent right now.

“Don’t worry, brother. I know very well what you are and aren’t capable of, and I know very well I am free to come and go as I please. I stay because I want to, and if that changes, I shall go. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Though I refuse to be the one to tell your husband.”

“Cowards, both of you. Very well. I’ll tell him at dinner and see how long he’ll stay as well, though I suspect he’ll be gone within a fortnight. He doesn’t like to be away from home too long.”

“Any good lord would say the same.”

Anna scoffs. “You and your sense of duty. Come, let’s take a turn about the garden. The fresh air will do you good…”

~ ~ ~

Anna’s presence is comfortable. Familiar. Like when they were very young children and their father’s inadequacies weren’t known to them yet. It does lighten his mood, especially when he gets to hold his nephew and see the infant smile.

But the place in his heart that Dean stole some time again remains burdened. He regrets how he took advantage of the kitchen boy, the more so because he did not follow Anna’s advice and talk to him in person. One final chance to memorize the contours of his face and the color of his eyes, even if they were bright with anger…

Dean clearly wants nothing to do with him, but Castiel’s determined to look after him as best he can. He continues to do his part to make sure Sam’s way is provided for. He also invests more energy listening to his advisors from that region.

“There is not much to say, my lord,” Inias says. “The grain production is good. Mining still yields much. Below average amount of crimes reported. Steady taxes from Lord Alastair and the lesser lords with holdings there.”

_Good. Dean is in a prosperous place then, and will be happy there._

“I’m glad to hear it,” Castiel says earnestly. “Though do me a favor and keep your ear to the ground. Any rumors you hear, especially in regards to Lady Rowena’s school or to Lord Alastair’s estate, I would be very interested in hearing.”

Inias nods. “Yes, my lord. I’m due for a visit to the region in a few weeks time. I can take the trip sooner, if your lordship is eager to hear my findings sooner.”

Castiel perks up at this. Though he himself will not be there, the smallest of chances that he might hear of Dean has his heart pounding in his chest. It would be ridiculous to ask Inias to seek out Dean specifically, especially given the nature of their falling out, but he can hope.

“If it would be no trouble—”

“None at all. I’ll inform my men to prepare our horses, and we’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Inias. I appreciate your dedication immensely.”

Inias bows low as he leaves. “‘Tis no trouble, my lord.”

_I sincerely hope there is **no** trouble._

~ ~ ~

The first is Inias’ return. His normal good cheer is gone as he enters Castiel’s study. Though he has no idea what news Inias has for him, he can tell instantly that it isn’t good.

“What have you learned?” he asks with all the calm he can muster. Did he see Dean?

“There are rumors of unrest, my lord. They’re all rumors, mind you, but there’s a general feeling of discontent in the region. My men and I were too easily spotted as outsiders, and it was difficult for us to find out specifics. I know not if their dissatisfaction is with the crown or more local, only that it has been there for some time. The people there are unhappy, though we know not why.”

That does not make sense. All news from the region is good. Trade is good, both in and out of the area. None of the nobles have offered grounds for complaint or forwarded any concerns to him. How could the people be unhappy?

Is Dean unhappy?

Blast it all, why did he burn that letter? What else did Dean try to tell him?

“What did Lord Alastair say?” Castiel demands. His people’s concerns are his own, but he cannot deny that Dean’s are at the foremost of his thoughts.

Inias shrugs. “Not much. That the smallfolk are superstitious and take too much stock in the turnings of the moon. That nothing is wrong but what they imagine to be wrong, and that he has tried to appease the people with festivities. My lord, may I speak freely?”

“Always.”

Even with the reassurance, Inias hesitates. “I did not get the impression that Lord Alastair was completely forthcoming. I believe he knows more, though I cannot begin to guess what he does know or why he would hide it. It might be his own embarrassment that he cannot keep his people in line, or perhaps he does not want to out another lord as being too harsh with his staff.”

“You’re suggesting Lord Alastair is not to be trusted?”

“I make no such claim,” Inias says. “Only that I think he knows more than he told me. To find out more, I would have to spend more time in the area. Gain people’s trust, and invest effort in a full investigation.”

“You have my leave to do so.” His permission is given so readily that Inias looks startled. “If you feel that you would not like to oversee this personally, I am open to recommendations from among your staff—”

“No!” Inias interrupts. “I would gladly go. I’ll admit, I have a vested interest. My family was from the area, before my grandfather moved to the capital. I’m curious and would like to help. If I have leave to go, I shall.”

“Good. I expect frequent reports. Anything and everything you find out, let me know.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

~ ~ ~

There is no faulting Alastair’s treatment of him. He is polite and kind, gives Dean the easiest of chores and even gifts him fine clothing or delicies like chocolates. If it weren’t for the way he stares at Dean with dead, hungry eyes, Dean might accept the favor without complaint.

_Never mind the rumors. There’s that to worry about, too._

Dean does as he’s bidden, but every day he waits for the other shoe to drop. Alastair’s buttering him up for whatever his real goal is, and though he seems a patient man, Dean doesn’t expect that patience to be unending.

“I hate the way he looks at me,” Dean confides to Sam at their weekly dinner together. The sit comfortably at their usual table at the tavern, the barmaid bringing them their usual fare. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Have you heard more about the rumors?” Sam asks uneasily.

“Not since last I saw you, no. What I do know is worrying enough. I’ve been saving my coins, hoping to get far away. I’ve kept quiet that I have a brother, he won’t be able to take it out on you.”

“If they don’t know you have a brother, why do they think you go to town so frequently?”

Dean shrugs and dunks his bread in stew to soak up the warm broth. “I assume they think I have a favorite at the local brothel.”

Sam chokes at this, his cheeks lighting up an amusing shade of red as he coughs on his dinner. “That doesn’t bother you? That they think you’d go to a place of such ill repute?”

“Nothing wrong with whores, Sammy. Everyone’s gotta make a living. Better that than they know the truth. Let’s hope Cas didn’t tell Alastair much if anything about you, either.”

Sam is quiet for a long moment, so much so that Dean knows his brother is planning to say something he won’t like. He waits patiently, prepared to be anything from annoyed to outright angry.

“Well,” Sam begins slowly. “Why don’t you ask the king for help? I was under the impression that he gave me this scholarship because you worked in the kitchens—”

Angry it is, then.

“I _have_ asked him for help,” Dean snaps. “I told you, I am nobody and he is the king. Any interest he had in me has long since dried up. If anything should happen Sam, I guarantee you there’s no point in going to the king. He’s made his indifference perfectly clear.”

_He might have even sent me here knowing what Alastair is… but no, even now I cannot think so little of Castiel. If he knew the truth, he wouldn’t have been so cruel as to send me here._

_… Then why has he ignored my plea?_

Dean shakes his head to dispel the thoughts. There is nothing to be gained from such self-pity.

“Is it not worth petitioning the king?” Sam persists. “Would he not want to know one of his nobles is a scoundrel?”

Dean shakes his head. “He might, but he has much to do, a whole kingdom to oversee. This one little part of the kingdom is below his notice, our plight not worth the effort of fixing. No, if we’re to petition anyone, it’s to be local officials. Ones that answer to the crown and not to Alastair. That might get us somewhere, if we found others willing to speak out. Us alone?” He snorts. “May as well be pissing in the wind.”

A good younger brother, Sam nods. As smart as he is, he defers to Dean’s judgement about such things. It does him credit—it’ll be a necessary part of his job as a scribe—and Dean is glad to have the subject of Castiel dropped.

“Okay. I’ll do my part to seek out which officials would be best to contact, just in case anything should go wrong. If you don’t show up one week…”

Dean shudders. He doesn’t want to think about that. “Good. Yes. I don’t want to be the next to go missing. I’ll try to find others in the castle who might be willing to help.”

“Isn’t that risky? What if you talk to the wrong person and they expose you?”  

“I’ll be careful. This is the only way to truly know what’s happening in Alstair’s castle before it’s too late. If need be, I can blackmail Alastair for my freedom. Anything to get out of there.”

“And the others?” Sam asks quietly. “Your fellow workers?”

It would be easier if he could simply walk away on his own and never look back. Unfortunately, his conscience (today in the form of one Sam Winchester) won’t let him.

“We’ll tell a magistrate,” Dean says with a sigh. “We’ll tell _someone_. That’s why I’m talking to people. You could do the same at your school. See if anyone’s had family or friends go missing. If we had _enough_ evidence that people vanish from Alastair’s castle, that would draw attention and force them to do _something_.”

“Alright. Then that’s what we’ll do. Until next week?”

“Aye. Until next week.”

~ ~ ~

Over the next few days, Dean does his best to recruit people. That’s not what he’s meaning to do, but that’s what it feels like as he one by one enlists their help.

There’s a certain type of person he seeks out. People who have lost friends or loved ones to Alastair. People who remain there out of necessity, because they need the coin and the roof over their heads. People who know full well they’ll get no letter of recommendation from Alastair should they leave.

One by one, he finds these people and asks them to seek out more. Alicia the kitchen girl lost her brother Max. The seamstress Meg lost her lover Ruby. Benny, the blacksmith, he won’t speak of who he lost but Dean suspects it was his wife. Victor, one of the guards, is an oddity; he has lost no one, but he is genuinely upset with how Alastair runs his castle and concerned about the disappearances. There are others, and slowly Dean feels like he’s making progress.

He doesn’t dare write a list of their names for fear of exposing them all. He keeps it all in his head and makes plans for all of them to leave. If they _all_ left together and exposed Alastair, someone would surely do something.

Right?

But until then, Dean has his job to do. He has to pretend to be a good kitchen boy and serve Alastair his meals each day. He has to endure Alastair’s attention and gifts. He hates how the whole thing reminds him of Castiel, how it’s a perversion of the happiness he once had.

It makes him want to flee all the more.

~ ~ ~

“You must have done something quite special to be such a favorite of the king.”

Dean freezes, then forces himself to relax. He has no doubt that Alastair enjoys seeing Dean squirm. It’s all part of his game, and Dean wishes to have no part of it.

“I work hard,” Dean says with a strained smile as he continues to pick up the scattered plates. “King Castiel appreciates hard work.”

Alastair chuckles, widening his legs so that his thigh brushes against Dean’s. It takes a monumental effort not to shudder and jerk away.

“I’m sure you do. You going to continue doing all that hard work for me?”

“Yes,” Dean grits out. All the warning bells in his head are going off. He needs to _run_.

Alastair takes a swig of his beer and smiles at Dean. When he speaks, his breath smells like old ale. “Come to my bed chambers tonight. I have plenty of… _work_ for you to do there.”

“No.”

Alastair’s smile, though it remains fixed in place, loses its mirth. It’s a grotesque copy of an actual smile. “You might want to reconsider your refusal. I am not a man used to being turned down.”

Dean squares his shoulders defiantly. “You’ll get used to it from me.”

The lord’s hands tighten around his chair, but he makes no other move. Dean hopes that means he’ll be allowed to leave this room.

_If he lets me out of his sight, I’ll flee tonight. I cannot stay another day…_

“Last chance, _boy_ ,” Alastairs says with the same voice one might use to scold a disobedient dog. “I’ll have you one way or another. Willingly in my bed or not so willingly in my dungeon. Either way, I will get full use of your body and will enjoy it immensely. It’s no matter to me which you choose, though I daresay you’d prefer my bed more. You might even be able to walk away when I’m done with you.”

Dean takes a step back, eyeing the path back to the kitchens. His hands tremble; he hopes the lighting is too dim for Alastair to see. If he didn’t stop at his room, could he make it out of the castle before Alastair ordered the gates shut?

“No, m’lord. I want no part of your bed.”

“Pity.” Alastair snaps his fingers. Guards move from the shadows, one second so still they could have been statues, the next their steel grip takes hold of Dean. “Take him to the dungeons. Don’t let anyone see you.”

Dean struggles against them but in vain. The guards are each twice his size (pity that Victor isn’t among them) and Dean’s no match for them without even an arm to throw a punch.

“The king won’t allow this!” Dean shouts, desperate. Alastair thinks he’s some great favorite of Castiel’s, so let him fear the king’s wrath. It’s Dean’s only card to play, and play it he shall. “When he hears of this—”

“You’re probably right,” Alastair drawls as he pulls his plate of pie close. “I doubt the king would like it if he knew what I was going to do with you.” He stabs a cherry with his fork before eating it and savoring the taste. “That’s why he won’t hear a word.”

In that awful moment, Dean knows he’s doomed. Castiel will not help him, Sam will be unlikely to act in time, and Dean’s bound for the dungeons.

The only one left who can save Dean is Dean himself.

~ ~ ~

Inias reports back to Castiel often enough that he’s becoming concerned. Every day he hears news of more unrest, of more dissatisfaction from the peasantry. Inias’ reassurances that it’s local grievances as opposed to ones against the crown do nothing to alleviate Castiel’s worries. If Dean is at all unhappy…

_My lord,_

_As per your request, I have made inquiries among those working at Lord Alastair’s castle. Those who would speak with me at all were very adamant that all is well at the castle. It is more the surrounding towns and hamlets are concerned, though strangely I am starting to hear rumors that their concerns are **about** Lord Alastair._

_There are reports—all unsubstantiated at the moment—of people who go to work for Lord Alastair but go missing soon after, without a trace. Admittedly, those rumors do sound like a lot of superstitious nonsense, as Lord Alastair claimed (werewolves and vampires and the like)._

_I would also like to note that there is particular activity—for I know not what else to call the protests and gatherings—centered around Lady Rowena’s school. Lady Rowena herself does not tolerate such behavior within the school walls, but it is very clear to me that if her students were to engage in such behavior, she would not stop them but perhaps encourage them. She has a personal grievance with Lord Alastair, I’m sure._

_I’ve attached detailed testimony from some of the locals, though I warn you again that some are of a ridiculous nature._

_Your ever faithful servant,_

_Inias_

Castiel reads each testimony again and again, giving it the same scrutiny he now wishes he’d given Dean’s letter. It makes no difference; Inias is right to call these reports superstitious. Men and women missing limbs, flayed to the bone, running wild in the woods surrounding Alastair’s castle, each one of them begging for death.

If they can talk at all before they succumb to their wounds.

The images are haunting, but the claims that witches or supernatural beings are at work makes the rest almost laughable. What is true and what is mere exaggeration? The pieces that have grown with each telling, versus the kernels of truth that gave life to them all? Even though Inias’ notes are impressive in scope, there is hardly enough for Castiel to begin to hazard a guess.

All he knows is something dangerous is at work… and that he is immensely glad that Dean is safe behind Alastair’s walls.

~ ~ ~

“Are you sure you love him?” Anna asks as she coos at her son. The boy has an iron grip on her finger and smiles happily at his mother. He even spares a smile or two for his uncle.

“I don’t mean to question the depth of your affection,” Anna hastily adds when she notices Castiel’s sullen silence. “It’s only… well, neither of us have had an abundance of affection in our lives. It took me ages to trust that I love Lord Milton and that he in fact felt the same for me. This seems rather sudden and deep a love, is all.”

Castiel’s quiet, his gaze distant as he considers his sister’s question. His initial reaction is to protest, to declare that he _does_ love Dean… but he supposes Anna has a point. It’s more likely that Dean’s the first pretty face that Castiel took a liking to, that he put too much weight on Dean’s smiles and laughs and his acquiescence. Did he even truly _know_ Dean—

And like that, Castiel realizes it doesn’t matter. Whether he loves Dean himself or an image he’s built up in his head, it doesn’t change things. He will do his best to look after the man he loves, no matter how innocent or misplaced or naive that love may be. Dean might not love him back (how could he, after the liberties Castiel took?), and he may not know Dean so well as he deserves to be known, but the feeling is there and grows every moment he thinks of Dean.

However flawed his love is, it still beats loudly in his chest.

“I do love him,” Castiel whispers.

Anna sighs, defeated. “Well then, let’s hope broken hearts mend.”

~ ~ ~

“A letter from the south,” a serving boy says, leaving the letter and a tray of warm tea. “M’lord,” the boy adds quickly and scurries off.

Castiel fully expects to find another letter from Inias, but the parchment is too thin and the handwriting not quite familiar. When he turns the letter over and finds Lord Alastair’s seal, Castiel’s heart leaps into his throat.

With hands shaking so badly he nearly rips the paper in half, Castiel finally manages to open the letter.

_Your Majesty,_

_I regret to inform you of a terrible accident that occurred but a few days ago. A fire broke out in the servants quarters late one night. By the time the rest of the household awoke, the building’s doors was nigh impassable. We put out the fire as quickly as we could, but alas all that were inside died in the blaze._

_I would not normally trouble you with such ill tidings. The bad luck of those poor bastards is, of course, not worthy news of a king who has the entire kingdom to worry about. The deaths of barely a dozen men and women are an unnecessary burden to put on an already weary mind. However, these particular circumstances compelled me to write you._

_Some months ago you sent me a kitchen boy. Dean, as his fellows remind me. He was unfortunately among those trapped by the fire. Like the others, he perished in the flames—_

The letter flutters from Castiel’s hands to the floor. His vision blurs, a strong wave of nausea passes through him, and it’s all he can do to keep from hitting anything as his legs give out beneath him.

Surely there’s a mistake. He read it wrong or there is some _other_ Dean…

Rereading the letter and finishing it through to the end only makes it clear that _his_ Dean did in fact die. Sam has already been informed, a generous sum paid out to the boy in recompense for the terrible accident, and that’s that. Like Dean’s life can so tidily be cleaned up.

 _My deepest condolences_ , Alastair writes, as if he has any idea what Dean means to Castiel. As if mere _words_ can soften the blow or make him feel any less wretched.

All the pain and guilt Castiel has felt until this moment he now realizes were but drops in the ocean. He is well and truly heartbroken. The ache in his chest is so real he wonders if he too might die. Then at least he could grovel at Dean’s feet in the afterlife, for what little that is worth.

It’s unfair. It is monumentally unfair that _Dean_ should be punished for Castiel’s transgressions. How dare the gods be so cruel, so unjust that they should kill Dean but leave Castiel alive and whole.

 _I suppose it’s fitting,_ he thinks numbly. _It’s fitting that I should live and have to bear this knowledge for the rest of my life._

_It’s only right that I should have to live each moment, safe and healthy and a damned pathetic excuse for a king, while a good man like Dean has died all because I coveted someone I should not have._

Gods damn it all, he wishes he were the one who’d died instead. If he could but take Dean’s place in that fire…

He eyes his own hearth far too keenly. Reaches a hand forward, spellbound by the dancing flames and wondering what agony Dean must have gone through in his final moments—

Castiel, as stubborn as he is, can only hold his hand steady for a minute before the pain begins to overshadow his grief. With a throaty cry, he pulls his hand out and marvels at the red blisters. The burn, as serious as it is, grounds him. A physical counterpoint to the endless well of grief inside of him, something to distract him long enough that he can think about something other than Dean.

He needs to send relief funds to Lord Alastair for the families of those who died. He needs to contact Lady Rowena and secure Sam’s future. He needs to get in touch with Inias.

He needs a healer for his damn hand.

So much that needs to be done… and then, once he’s satisfied he’s done all that he can, only then can he allow his grief to consume him.

~ ~ ~

“You loved a man so much you burned your hand, is that what you’re telling me?” Anna all but shrieks when she sees him. “Where’s the sense in that? You damn fool!”

She ushers away the healers and takes over rubbing in the ointment.

“You’re an idiot,” she says, not mincing her words or hiding her tears. “An idiot. Dumber than Michael or Luke or Raphael or any of them. Too much heart was always your problem, and look where it’s gotten you. You’re a damned idiot and I hate that I’m stuck here watching out for such a man. Why could I not have but _one_ decent brother—”

“He’s dead, Anna,” he interrupts her, voice too weak and hoarse for him to raise above a whisper. “He’s dead because I sent him there.”

Anna’s hands falter as she wraps the gauze, but she otherwise is unaffected. “I heard,” she says more gently, her anger momentarily abated before it picks up in full force. “But so what if he is? Does burning yourself bring him back? You think his ghost is at all appeased by your misery? It was an _accident_ , Castiel. Unfortunate though it was, no one in their right mind could blame you for it.”

“I _sent_ him there. If not for me, he would still be _here_ —”

“And his brother would still be too poor to be at school. And who’s to say it wasn’t his time, hmm? You have no way of knowing what would have happened, so I forbid you to beat yourself up over this.”

“You cannot forbid a king anything.” Castiel winces as she pulls the gauze too tightly. Anna kindly undoes it just a hair. “And you cannot forbid a man from mourning as he sees fit.”

The siblings glare at each other, a silent battle of wills. Castiel is only somewhat pleased that his sister turns away first.

“If you do something like this again, I’ll start a coup,” she threatens.

“I believe you. You’d make an excellent queen.”

She makes a face at that. “Ugh, I would have to be queen, wouldn’t I? The coup is off until Samandriel’s off age, but don’t think I won’t find some other way to keep you from hurting yourself—”

“Anna,” Castiel says urgently. He uses his good hand to squeeze hers. “I promise, no more fires. It was a momentary lapse in judgement, I swear. I mean to be a good king, or as good of one as I can. I won’t become mad like Father did.”

His sister eyes him warily, worrying her bottom lip. “You’d better not. You really scared me there. I had flashbacks of mother’s death. Don’t make me lose you, too.”

“You won’t,” he says with more conviction than he feels.

“Good. Now tell me what you plan to do and I will do all that I can to help.”

~ ~ ~

Despite his promises to Anna, there’s only so much Castiel can do to keep himself going. He cries himself to sleep most nights, either that or he works himself ragged so he doesn’t sleep at all. He starts to drink, and when he finds that almost helps, he drinks to excess. There are rumors about it, he’s sure of it, but Anna keeps them quiet. Mostly. Intellectually he knows he should stop, but the alcohol numbs the never ending pain so he can function, so that he can get the jobs done that need to doing.

Day after day, he goes through the motions of being king. He listens to his subjects and advisors, issues decrees, addresses concerns, allocates funds as necessary. It’s all so familiar he can do it by rote, though he does try to be more diligent than before. The rumors of ill tidings, whether from the north or from other far flung parts of the kingdom, are all worthy of his attention. The rumors are the stories of his people, and they deserve to be known.

As Castiel kicks off his boots and climbs into bed, thankfully so exhausted he expects to pass out almost immediately, he’s hit with a startling realization. In so many ways, his life now is as it was before Dean. Doing his best for others but having no care for himself.

 _Except now it’s worse,_ he thinks morosely. _There’s no light at the end of this tunnel, no enchanting kitchen boy waiting to transform my nights into something magic. Something worth living for._

_No, now I live for everyone else, and to do my best to make up for that one costly mistake._

It’s a hollow life, but it’s one he’s duty bound to.

~ ~ ~

Duty bound. The words echo in his head all morning when he wakes up, and they drive him to his study. So much work to do, not enough gold or time or _information_ —

“A letter, m’lord,” a young girl says, all skirts as she rushes into the room. She drops the fine parchment on his desk, curtsies, and then runs away like she’s scared of him. It’s honestly adorable.

The faintest shadow of a smile graces his lips as he picks up the letter but disappears the moment he reads who it’s from.

_Your Majesty,_

_As always, I am grateful for your attention to my wee school. It’s an honor to have someone of your standing pay as any mind at all, never mind your active interest in the education of one of my students. Your latest donation was quite sizeable, and I very much appreciate it._

_However, I must return it. Though I’m not one who likes to return gold or other fine gifts of charity, I must. You have made it quite clear that your particular interest lies with young Samuel, but I’m afraid the boy is no longer at my school or under my care. He left some time ago, nearly a fortnight if I’m not mistaken._

_Before you ask, I don’t know where he went. He left very abruptly, though the sweet lad did apologize for quitting his studies. Something about his brother needing help and how he was the only one who could help him. Sounded like nonsense if you ask me, but Samuel’s a clever boy. Maybe there was something to it._

_I know Lord Alastair was poking around here looking for the boy, though of course I have no idea if that’s at all connected. Based on the inquiries your boy Inias has been making in the area, it seemed like something you’d want to know._

_So while Samuel is no longer in attendance at my school, please keep us in mind if your coffers are overflowing and you’d like to help out other young lads and ladies looking to better their prospects. I’m able to provide you any information I can in exchange. I personally don’t interact with Lord Alastair, but my students have family and friends among his staff. Might be very useful for anyone investigating any ill behaving lords._

_Yours,_

_Lady Rowena_

The letter itself was expected—he’d written to Rowena almost immediately after he’d heard from Alastair—but none of its contents are. Sam’s missing? Alastair was looking for him? Does Rowena suspect more than she’s implying, or is this simply a grab for more money?

The only thing he knows for sure is that once again he’s failed Dean. The one thing he promised was to look after his brother, and now the boy’s missing.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds overly harsh on his lips, the moreso because he so rarely uses such language, but it feels an appropriate way to describe his feelings now. “Damn it all.”

He allows himself a few more minutes of puzzlement before he springs to action.

He bursts out of the room and catches hold of the first servant he can find. “Gather the privy council, get my sister, alert the barracks, and tell the stables to prepare the wagons for a journey. There is much to be done.”

~ ~ ~

Sam is young enough that he will follow his brother’s lead… but not so young that he thinks it a good idea. Dean has always had good intuition and been an excellent judge of character; if he has any reason, no matter how trivial, to distrust Lord Alastair, Sam cannot fathom why he would willingly return to his castle.

No matter how much Sam hints at this (and even one time blurts it out directly), Dean waves off his concerns.

“I can handle myself,” Dean says with all the false confidence of an older brother who’s in no way sure but plays at it for his sibling’s sake. Strange, that Sam’s able to notice the cracks in the facade when but a year ago he would have believed Dean completely.

One of the downsides to growing up, he supposes.

“Besides,” Dean persists, “I need the coin and I can’t leave the others to Alastair’s mercy. I need to help if I can. There’s time yet.”

Sam rolls his eyes. There’s no point in further argument, not until Alastair does more, but Sam remains uneasy.

~ ~ ~

His unease is justified when Dean arrives late to their weekly dinner at the tavern. For horus he sits there, waiting patiently despite the growing knot of tension in his gut. When the tavern closes without Dean coming at all, Sam knows his fears have come true.

Sam dares not go to the castle himself. If Dean would not heed his own instincts, Sam surely will. He assumes the worst, that his brother is trapped or worse within the castle walls. He assumes Lord Alastair is the monster he’s painted to be, one who has maintained such monstrosity by living in plain sight. He will not allow a curious brother to ruin him now.

Instead, Sam asks another boy in the school to go on his behalf. Kevin’s family is of enough renown that if he should go missing, people will notice.

“What do I say?” Kevin asks, brow furrowed in confusion. “Why can’t you go yourself?”

“I would if I could, alas I cannot.” Sam hedges. “Say you’re looking for Dean Winchester. Don’t mention me, just that you want to see him. Make up a reason. Hell, make up a name for yourself. Say you’re friends and you haven’t heard from him lately and are worried.”

“And when I see him?”

Sam has no plan for that possibility. It never occurred to him that Dean might actually be allowed a visitor.

“Ask if he is well. If you are alone with him—and make sure that no one is listening—ask if he needs help. Say I sent you and that I’m doing my best to help him.”

At the somber tone, Kevin goes pale. “You don’t think I’m going to see him, do you?”

Sam sighs morosely. “No, I don’t.”

~ ~ ~  

It’s hard for Sam not to watch the school’s gates as he waits for Kevin’s return. Harder still not to barge into Kevin’s room when the other boy comes back but a few hours after he set out.

“I didn’t see him,” Kevin says, looking a little shell shocked. “I did as you asked and they told me to wait. I waited and waited, and it wasn’t until I started to pester them that they told me the news. ‘Dean Winchester’s mother has taken ill and he’s left to be with his family. We have no forwarding address and do not expect his return.’ Sam, you told me your mother died when you were a boy.”

“She did,” he confirms. His voice is almost too hoarse for him to force out the words. “I’m the only family Dean has left.”

Kevin nods as though he expected as much. “Then your brother’s in as much trouble as you feared.”

“Shit.”

It’s a mild curse, but Kevin’s eyes widen in surprise. “If there’s anything I can do to help—”

“If there is, I will let you know. Thank you.”

Sam slips out of Kevin’s room as quickly as possible. He doesn’t want the other boy to see him cry.

~ ~ ~

Alastair’s men come for him. Sam hears the horses approaching, sees the familiar crest they bear as they march to the door. In a panic, he grabs his bags and packs them, ready for a hasty escape if need be. They’re on horseback but the woods by the river will slow them down—

There’s no knock at his door. No armed men who politely demand he follow. Instead they leave without seeing Sam or anyone else at all.

He doesn’t know what to make of that, especially since no one will do more than whisper about the encounter. The men came looking for someone (no one knows who, though Kevin eyes him suspiciously), met with Lady Rowena, and were promptly dismissed. Sam’s terrified of the headmistress, knowing full well the stories of her temper, and dares not seek her out to ask about the men.

It doesn’t matter. The message is clear from the horsemen he sometimes catches sight of beyond the school grounds: Sam is safe so long as he’s at the school. Should he try to go to town…

That gives him very few options. For now he’s stuck and with little hope of getting word beyond the school’s walls.

~ ~ ~

Nearly a month ago Sam began correspondence with local magistrates. Very few were interested in investigating Lord Alastair. Many were outright aggressive in their response, accusing Sam of rabble rouser and a troublemaker. Sam sent apologies to them and made note that these men and women were likely already on Alastair’s payroll.

There is one man who did seem genuinely curious.

Inias, a king’s man who was actively seeking out news from all corners of the region. Noble, merchant, humble peasant, he cares not for a person’s background, only for what they tell him.

Sam is no longer free to write Inias on his own, but Kevin volunteers to send letters on his behalf. He is not as carefully watched as Sam. The men on horseback question him whenever he goes to town—as they do all the students—but they never give him any trouble. He posts all of Sam’s letters and brings back the replies.

It seems Inias has similar suspicions about what Alastair’s doing. He seeks as much proof as he can find, wants to meet with Sam and any others who might be able to build a case against him—

“It might be a trap,” Kevin points out. “You said the others you contacted were dismissive. Maybe he’s only interested because he’s trying to lure you out of the school.”

It is an unfortunate but likely possibility.

“Shit.”

This time, Kevin isn’t surprised by the outburst.

“Shit,” he agrees.

Sam briefly considers writing the king himself. Even pens a draft, first thanking the king for the scholarship and then begging on Dean’s behalf that he intercede. He doubts the king would be indifferent or in Alastair’s pocket… but Dean was adamant the king did _not_ care. That writing him would be a waste of time, if only because the likelihood of a peasant’s letter reaching his attention was so low it was not worth the effort. Dean knew the king, perhaps it’s better to trust his judgement…

Without any hope of an answer, Sam casts the unfinished letter into the fire.

With no king or magistrates or even his big brother to help him, Sam is on his own.

~ ~ ~

Desperate to act, to _do_ something other than hide behind Rowena’s walls and write letters to men who may or may not come to his aid, Sam packs his bags and sneaks out in the dead of night. He has no plan, no idea how he can possibly rescue his brother (or if he is even too late in doing so, but he pushes that thought aside), only the faintest of leads.

Dean is not the only one to go missing. Sam can’t be the only concerned family member, the only one who might want retribution. Dean himself said others in the castle had lost people. If Sam can go to town and _find_ others like him, then perhaps he’ll have found himself some allies.

Though he’s but fourteen, he knows he must act with the wisdom of one much older. Sam sets out into the dark, unfriendly world and hopes the gods will look out for him.

~ ~ ~

“This is one lady implying that one lord is up to no good,” Anna says, her voice commanding the attention of the room. “That’s hardly enough to mount a military incursion—”

“It’s not a military incursion if it’s my own military in my own country. I’m not attacking anyway, but a display of force goes a long way. Inias has been talking to the people. There’s something going on, that much is clear. Whether lord alastair is involved is questionable, but I mean to find out.”

_I’ve left this too long. I am duty bound to see this through. Anna, **please**._

Anna looks around the room. He can see her calculating what to say, not wanting to expose him to this group but also not wanting to let the matter go while there’s still time to change his mind.

“This isn’t about… _him_ , is it?” she asks very carefully.

_Everything’s about him. Every breath I take from now until I die is about making it up to Dean._

“How I became aware of this issue is absolutely related to personal reasons,” he says smoothly, “but it’s not the only reason I’m pursuing it. I am merely traveling to add weight to Inias’ investigation and hopefully stop any more people from going missing.”

At that, Anna blinks. “Who is missing?” she demands.

One of the other council members speaks up. “I will side with the king on this, though I would recommend only a small military force. There _are_ a number of missing persons reports from that area, though very few of those cases are pursued. A few might seem coincidence, but I’ve read Inias’ reports myself. There are too many for this not to be suspicious. Finding out what’s happening is completely reasonable.”

As if emboldened by the other man’s speech, a second man stands up and turns to Anna. She glares at him harshly enough that he visibly swallows and won’t meet her eye, but he speaks nonetheless.

“A small guard for king’s protection and to apply pressure in the appropriate places is acceptable. Other forces can be kept at the ready should anything but happen, but there’s no need to bring more than twenty, maybe thirty men. While I’m not as familiar with the briefings as my fellow council member, I will say that my own interactions with Lord Alastair have made me not trust the man.”

Castiel’s taken aback; he’s not used to his council members surprising him.

Anna, though equally shocked, only narrows her eyes. “Explain.”

The man goes red. “Well, he’ll pay his dues and he’ll say all the right words, but there was always something… off. I can’t describe it, but I know I felt more at ease traveling in a rickety carriage on a bumpy, cobbled road than I ever felt in his presence or while as his guest.”

“And why have you kept quiet—?” Castiel demands, his hands shaking with something akin to rage.

The poor man looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “I’m sorry, my lord. My personal dislike is not enough to cast a possibly good man into suspicion. There have been no grievances against him before now, no suspicions raised. In all the other discussions of this topic that the council has had, Lord Alastair’s name has not been mentioned. If there had been any reason to, I _would_ have mentioned this.”

“Fine, then,” Anna says with a dismissive wave. “Lord Alastair might be up to something, and if not there’s likely something going on in the area. I don’t see why my brother, the _king_ needs to go gallivanting on his own—”

“Yes you do,” Castiel says sharply. “Of all the people here, you best of all know why this is something I have to see to personally.”

Anna’s jaw clicks shut. The council members look uneasily back and forth between the siblings.

“Fine,” she says slowly. “You will go to take care of this matter yourself. But I swear, Cassie, if you get hurt because of this—”

“Alastair has never openly acted in defiance of the crown, even under other kings. It’s unlikely he would do so now. Besides, he has but one castle and not the men to combat me. I am not in any danger.”

_Though Alastair might be, if I find out he mistreated Dean in any way…_

~ ~ ~

It takes a whole day to prepare. There are soldiers and knights to summon, Castiel needs to properly brief the privy council on how to act in his absence (though admittedly he will rely heavily on Anna’s judgement to guide them), and there are of course supplies to gather. Castiel oversees all the work with a detached sense of calm.

He has no idea what he’s walking into, but for the first time in a long while, he feels like he’s doing what’s right.

If he thinks about that too long, he realizes he hasn’t felt that sense of righteousness since he helped depose the last of his brothers.

Hopefully this will end just as favorably.

~ ~ ~

The journey will be short, but three days of travel by road. Only one and a half if he pushes his escort, but he does not.

At least not until they’re nearly halfway there.

A young woman on horseback approaches from down the road at a gallop. She slows as she gets to the beginning of their party, mostly because their party is so large they take up most of the road. The moment she sees the banner streaming in the air behind Castiel, her eyes go wide and she jerks her horse right towards him.

“Your majesty?” she asks. His bodyguards block her path, but he motions them away. The girl cannot be more than sixteen and riding her horse to the breaking point; she is a messenger, not an assassin.

“What is your name?” he asks kindly.

“Krissy,” she says, then seems to remember herself and bows as much as she can in the saddle. “M’lord.”

“What news do you have, Krissy?”  

She startles slightly and then rushes to pull at her satchel. “There’s been an uprising, m’lord. I’ve been sent on behalf of those involved to beg for leniency.” Then she hands over a bundle of letters.

Castiel snatches the letters from her and breaks the seal on the first one, a plain red circle of ink. “What? An uprising? Against whom—”

The first lines he reads make that abundantly clear: _In order to free ourselves from Lord Alastair’s reign of terror, we have risen up against him._

He dismounts and walks away, needing a moment to digest this. While he longs to continue rushing in head first, this is important. This is his worst fears confirmed, and the moments it will take him to read this are worth it.

The letter to Castiel is straightforward. The peasants both working in and around Alastair’s castle had rebelled against him for acts of cruelty. Alastair has been captured and trapped in his own dungeon to await the king’s judgement. The people beg for Castiel’s mercy as well; they did rebel against a noble, but they never intended to go against the crown. They list grievances, reasons to justify their actions, and some are so graphic Castiel needs to stop reading and walk away.

Torture and mutilation. Rape. Murder. He even set fire to one of the servants quarters one night and locked the door so they couldn’t escape, listened to their screams and refused to let anyone help until the building had burnt to the ground. He is a madman, a fiend, a monster in sheep’s clothing.

Castiel knows he should feel a lot. He should feel this news to the depths of his soul. When he reads of the fire… he nearly crushes the parchment and clutches it against his heart as though it could in any way ease the pain that’s been his constant companion. This man was allowed to behave as he did and Castiel had no idea. He sent _Dean_ there, without properly checking to make sure this man was at all decent. Paid his taxes. Was neutral in the coup. Pathetic that he thought that this was good enough for the man he loved.

He _should_ feel the true weight of this, it should crush him so completely he’ll never recover.

 _I have no doubt that it will,_ he thinks to himself. _Given time._

Instead he feels an indignant anger. No, a rage that burns bright and fierce. This abomination of a man will pay. He’s glad the uprising left Alastair alive so that he can personally deal the king’s justice to him, treat him in all the vulgar ways he has treated the people he was supposed to look out for.

He will kill the man who killed the one he loved, and then he will do all he can to make things better.

And then, after that, he will let his own grief and guilt and pain consume him, as it ought to.

“Get the girl a fresh horse,” Castiel demands as he storms back to his escort. “We make for Lord Alastair’s castle at double pace. We rest only to water the horses. Understood?”

The commander gives a curt bow and a short, “Yes, m’lord,” before he orders the others to prepare to set out at the king’s command.

If they really push it, they’ll be at Alastair’s castle by morning.

~ ~ ~

Castiel blinks up at the sun, bobbing along with the stride of his horse. Another rider pulls up beside him. He expects one of his knights or a scout, perhaps one of the servants rushing forward to offer him a wine skin or bread.

Instead when Cas looks beside him, he sees dirty blond hair and the most striking green eyes he’s ever seen.

“Dean,” he croaks, knowing this must be a dream. He’s dreamed of Dean before, though luckily the images came to him as scattered ideas more than anything else. No need for his nights to torment him with the kitchen boy’s sweet touch or his tortured screams, he had more than enough imagination to experience both in his waking hours.

Dean says nothing back, just smiles sadly at him.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel whispers. “My words of regret are meaningless to you, I know, for even if you were Dean’s shade there is nothing I could do to undo how I have treated you… but I promise, I will do all I can to make it right for all those who survived Alastair. I will do all in my power to stop such atrocities from ever happening again. I swear it. Just as I swear to make the man himself pay for all that he did—”

The apparition silences him with a touch. It’s only a gentle hand on Castiel’s thigh, but even though he knows it to be a dream, he swears he can feel the warmth of it. Castiel can no longer find words, can do nothing but stare into green depths so beautiful yet so dull in comparison to the real thing.

When Castiel wakes to the sound of a trumpet call, he feels strangely more at peace than he had when he started this journey.

Not enough that he thinks he’s in any way redeemed himself, not yet. It’s a start, though.

Castiel had seemingly only missed the last hour of the journey. He’d refused sleep the night before, but his own exhaustion had gotten the better of him. He’s simply glad he managed to stay in his saddle and not slow the whole procession down by losing his seat.

They now stand before Alastair’s castle, the drawbridge raised and many a curious heads staring down at them from the walls. Though a few have bows within reach, none raise them to fire.

“Who goes there?” calls a voice from above. Castiel catches sight of an older man with an eyepatch. He sounds surly and distrustful, not that Castiel can blame him for either.

“His Majesty, King Castiel,” calls one of Castiel’s attendants. They raise his banner as proof. “He requests a meeting with those in charge—”

“Bobby!” Krissy yells as she guides her borrowed horse through the crowd. “I brought the king with me!”

There’s a pause. “Krissy?” the man asks skeptically, though he can see her full well. “Didn’t you only leave day before last? Thought the capital was at least a five day journey, there and back.”

“I wouldn’t know!” she says. “I ran into the king on the road. Seems he had a head start.”

More silence.

“You gonna let us in or what?” Krissy demands. “C’mon, I’m hungry and I miss my dad! Lemme in, would ya?”

Almost immediately after her words reach the man’s ears, there’s a muffled order to lower the gate.

Krissy’s the first inside, rushing to the stable with no more than a wave back at Castiel and his men. The rest file in more slowly, the general pomp and circumstance of escorting the king not allowing his entourage to rush. Castiel can barely sit still in his saddle. There is much to do, so much to atone for, and he’d like to get started.

“Didn’t expect the king himself to come all this way,” the man with the eyepatch drawls. Bobby, Castiel corrects himself; he needs to remember their names if he’s to be making up for their grievances. Bobby especially comports himself with the easy authority of a man who’s taken up the burden of leadership; it suits him well, and those around him clearly respect him. Whatever is to come, Bobby will be an important part of it. “Were you really on the way?”

“I was,” Castiel confirms as he dismounts. He dismisses the attendant who steps forward to help him. “There were troubling reports from this region that I wished to investigate personally. It seems those reports grossly misrepresented how dire things were.”

He offers Bobby his hand to shake it, earning a wide-eyed look from the older man. When he stands there dumbly, unsure how to react, Castiel reaches forward and takes Bobby’s hand in his.

“Well met,” he says with as much of a smile as he can muster.

“Well met,” Bobby repeats by rote, then frowns and puts an actual effort into shaking Castiel’s hand. “Sorry. Never expected to be greeted so informal by a king.”

Castiel turns to look around the courtyard. He lets his eyes linger on the faces, ones that have clearly endured terrible hardships behind these stone walls, and then slowly directs his attention back to Bobby. “I suspect there’s a great many things that have happened of late that were beyond your expectations.”

This time Bobby goes red before letting out a loud guffaw. “Oh, I like you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed as hell at the situation in general, but you and I’ll get along just fine. Come on, lemme take you inside. The boss’ll want to see you.”

Castiel falls in step behind Bobby, only briefly faltering at the word ‘boss.’ “Are you not in charge?” he asks slowly.

“Nah. I man the gate and oversee the supplies and whatnot. I helped with this little coup, but I ain’t the brains or even the brawn behind it. Just an old coot who did what he could.”

“I’m sure you’re selling yourself short.”

Bobby snorts. “Maybe, but I’ve been putting up with Alastair for years. I wasn’t the spark of this revolt, just one of the pieces that caught fire.”

They pass into the castle proper. Castiel’s never been here personally, but the layout isn’t exactly unfamiliar. There are a great many castles of a similar style, built in a similar time and fashion; once you’ve been in one, it feels like you’ve been in them all. It doesn’t take long for Castiel to recognize they’re heading to the great hall. He allows Bobby to continue to lead, but he thinks he could very well find his way on his own.

The hall itself is as Castiel would expect in terms of size and layout. The furnishings, however, appear to have been stripped. There are no fine silver candle holders or richly painted works of art or dazzling tapestries gracing the wall. They’ve ever been taken away, likely divied up as loot from their rebellion, or perhaps there was little finery to begin with.

He very much hopes it’s the former.

Given that Lord Alastair has no heirs or living relatives, Castiel is not sad to see that these people have found some minor compensation on their own. Him awarding them gold for their pain is one thing, but he highly suspects they enjoyed _taking_ it by force.

Gods know he enjoyed snatching his crown off of Lucifer’s head.

At the end of the hall is the grand chair meant for the castle’s lord. In it sits a man not dressed in the silk or velvet or even the bearskin of a noble. He is dressed plainly, no different than anyone else here excepting his choice of seat and the general air of confidence around him. There are men, other peasants, standing on either side of him. Some have weapons which they grip more tightly as Castiel approaches, but hepays them no mind; he has his own bodyguards in tow, after all, and he means this man no harm.

It takes him a startlingly long time to actually set his eyes on the man. Castiel is so busy memorizing each detail that he neglected the most obvious one. It’s not until he’s but ten feet away that he actually _looks_ at the leader of this group of rebels.

Right before his very eyes sits Dean, alive and well.

And in the blink of an eye, Castiel’s world crashes around him.

~ ~ ~

Dean wakes with his arms and legs stretched uncomfortably by metal bindings, his mouth parched, and his eyes blinking against the dim light. Day, night, it matters not. Without windows, there is nothing to mark the passage of time. The only thing to break the monotony is when Alastair visits.

He prefers the monotony.

There’s nothing but agony when Alastair comes. He cuts and twists and does things Dean has no words to describe and no wish to learn them. In his life, Dean’s felt his fair share of pain: sore muscles, sickness, injury, the burn in his legs after a hard run, and the sweet ache that accompanied his nights with Castiel.

And in all his life, Dean had never even broached the limits of true pain.

The first session, he’d bit back his screams until his lips bled from the effort. He quickly learned that was a mistake. Alastair delights in breaking in new pets, finding new ways to make them scream. If Dean screams, Alastair is satisfied sooner and leaves him to his wounds.

There are many times Dean both expects and even hopes to die strapped to Alastair’s rack, abandoned and forgotten in some lonely dungeon.

No, not forgotten. Sam knows, to some extent at least. Alastair used to taunt Dean with promises of bringing Sam to him, making them each watch as he took the brothers apart piece by piece… The taunts stopped abruptly one night and dean was flogged to the point of blisters before he passed out. Alastair said not a word, but Dean understood; Sam was beyond his reach.

Thank the gods for small favors.

Sam’s presumed safety alone gives Dean comfort now. His little brother is safe and may yet find a way to help him.

Rescue is a faint hope, but it’s all Dean has.

~ ~ ~

Admittedly, there are occasions when Dean’s too weak and broken to spare a thought for the king, wondering if he too has not yet forgotten their time together. Dean hopes that Castiel at least regards that time fondly, even if Dean were nothing but a meaningless diversion, a convenient and somewhat pretty boy who was willing to be lead where the king willed.

~ ~ ~

“I’ll take you off my rack if you’re willing to put someone else up instead,” Alastair drawls. The knife he twirls reflects the torchlight, a poignant reminder of what’s to come. “Give me a name and I’ll bring them down. Let me see how much you’ve learned. Every scream you get from them is one less I’ll take from you.”

The idea sickens him. Dean’s never been squeamish—working in a large kitchen with dead animals to prepare, he never had the luxury—but the mere thought of forcing someone to take his place, to personally take up Alastair’s blades and cut into living flesh… His stomach roils at the thought, and he’s glad there’s too little in it to vomit. He doesn’t want to give Alastair any more satisfaction than he already does.

“Go to hell,” Dean spits out. He’s proud hsi voice doesn’t break.

Alastair merely laughs and leans forward, his breath rank and foul. “Look around you, boy. We’re already here…”

~ ~ ~

Death continues to elude him, mostly because of the pains Alastair goes to keep him fed and his wounds from festering. Each day that Dean wakes to find himself yet alive, he mourns that it is so.

~ ~ ~

Alastair asks again and again. Name a name, any name, and it ends. Dean lies there, relishing the pause before he answers because it’s a rare moment when he has control, where Alastair must attend to _his_ wants and desires.

It always ends the same, though. Dean curses him, spits vitriol at the monster claiming to be a man until his owns creams choke him.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes Dean’s mind tortures him with _what if_.

What if he’d never mentioned Sam to Castiel? Would he still be serving the king dinner and enjoying his sweet attentions?

What if he survives this dungeon? Will the scars ever heal? Will he learn to live with the pieces of himself that are now missing?

What if Sam can do nothing and resigns himself to being unable to help his brother? Will he forever bear the guilt… or will he move on and forget his unfortunate, lost brother?

What if Dean had never met Castiel at all? Or perhaps what if he had never caught the king’s eye? Would he now be happy, though Sam’s prospects would be substantially diminished?

Worst of all, he contemplates a very dangerous _what if_.

What if he named a name?

~ ~ ~

Alastair never comes alone. He likes an audience, likes having guards there that can at one extreme shout encouraging approval or go pale and silent but do nothing more than turn away. It used to sicken Dean, to know his humiliation was so widely known, then doubly so because these guards _know_ yet can’t trouble themselves to intercede.

Later, Dean barely notices them at all.

The only observation the dully makes is that Victor is never among them. That’s some small comfort, he supposes, that there is at least _one_ good man above to look out for the others.

Is one good man enough, though? Clearly not, if his present circumstances are any indication.

But perhaps _two_ good men might be.

~ ~ ~

“Victor,” he rasps, heart pounding so loudly in his chest he’s sure it will give him away.

There’s a long pause.

“Victor?” Alastair repeats and looks over his shoulder to his guards.

“He’s one of the guards who mans the gate,” one supplies. “The one always asking questions.”

Alastair’s eyebrows go up in genuine surprise, then he laughs in true pleasure. “You heard the boy. Bring him. Unarmed. This’ll be quite the treat.”

One guard goes to fetch Victor while the other is charged with untying Dean’s restraints.

Dean rubs at his wrists, the skin worn down from weeks under the metal bindings. His fingers trace wounds he will forever bear, even if and when they fade. He catalogues each and every one so that if he’s very lucky, he might return them in kind.

Alastair beckons him to a table, an ugly grin on his face that highlights how grotesque his features truly are. So damn pleased to think he’s broken Dean, that his pet will now join him in the merriment.

“Take your pick.” Alastair motions towards the wide array of tools before them, most of which Dean is intimately acquainted with.

Dean staggers over. His body is weak, perhaps too weak for what he has planned, but he stubbornly goes to stand beside the table. It disgusts him to be so near his tormentor, especially when Alastair puts a hand on him. It takes no small amount of fortitude to resist the urge to recoil.

 _You want him close for this,_ he reminds himself.

The assurance makes it no easier to endure.

Dean examines all the tools, so carefully laid out, so clean that they might be mistaken for innocent if Dean did not know better. He chooses one that will fit his needs, one that will work best for both his designs for Alatair and in his weakened state.

He picks up a heavy wooden mallet. A slow swing to test the weight, and Dean knows this will do him well.

“Hmm,” Alastair hums. “I’m curious to see what you do with that.” He squeezes Dean’s shoulder painfully, fully aware that he touches a recent burn, and leans closer still to whisper, “Remember our deal, boy. You only stay off my rack if you make someone else hurt just as bad. You go easy on him, you end up right back where you were.”

This time Dean can’t help but shudder. HIs hand tightens reflexively around the mallet.

_Not yet._

Alastair releases him, though not before patting him on the back once, twice, and finally steps back. Dean barely has but a second to relax before he’s asked, “Why Victor?”

“Why not?” he says dismissively. Alastair’s eyes go hard and he knows that answer will not suffice. “I’m tired of getting cut into. Victor would rather it be him on there if it spares someone else, so let me be free and him play hero.”

That earns an approving nod and no more.

Thank the gods, it’s not long before Dean hears footsteps approaching the chamber. Let this be done with, to whatever end.

Victor enters first, indeed unarmed but as of yet unrestrained. Not surprising. As master of this castle, if Alastair summons anyone here, who are they to refuse such a request? It is only their lot to do as they’re told.

The guard behind Victor stays close, the other who had stayed behind moves towards him subtly, no doubt waiting for the inevitable circumstance when Victor finds out what’s to come and struggles. Both men move with the efficiency of those who have done this many times before and can carry out their job with practiced ease.

“Good day, Victor,” Alastair says. He stands in front of Dean, but Dean can hear his pleased smile. He even imagines Alastair licking his lips in anticipation.

“M’lord,” Victor says automatically and moves to make a small bow. Before he can, though, Dean takes half a step to the side so that he’s clearly in Victor’s line of sight. It has its intended effect; Victor’s eyes go wide in surprise. “Dean? They—they said you—”

Dean can’t wait an instant longer. With what strength he can muster, he slams the mallet against the side of Alastair’s hit. There’s a dull thud as he makes contact, then Alastair topples lifeless to the ground.

To his credit, Victor does not long delay before reacting. He seizes the sword of the nearest guard and knocks him out with the butt of it, then rounds on the other. The second guard considers for a moment, looking worriedly between Victor and Dean, and then decides better of taking hsi chances. He relinquishes his sword and drops to his knees in silent surrender.

Before Dean can move to bind Alastair or the guard, Victor turns his blade on Dean.

“Explain,” he demands.

Dean cautiously raises his hands. “I think you can guess why I’m in the dungeon…” He looks significantly at his bare arms. “And how long I’ve been here. You know I have committed no offense, none that would warrant such treatment as this. We spoke on this matter before, so I know full well that you at least suspect foul play. Let me takes this chance to heartedly confirm that yes, there is much foul play at work here.”

They stare at each other across the dungeon before Victor slowly lowers his sword with a sigh.

“Aye, I do suspect such as you suggest. What, pray tell, are we to do about it?”

For the first time in so long he can scarce remember the feeling of it, Dean smiles.

“We rebel.”

~ ~ ~

The man before Castiel is barely a man at all, but clearly not a boy. Young enough to show the vitality of youth, but the distinct hard lines of manhood beginning to take shape. He’s filled out in the shoulders and has lines under his eyes that only come from experiencing hard truths and a harsh world.

Oh gods, what has Dean experienced to give him that look?

He looks every bit the leader Castiel _was_ expecting, but in a form so decidedly unexpected, so pleasant, that it’s impossible for him to think sensibly.

Dean is alive. _Alive_. It never occurred to him—

It’s that lack of sense that drives him forward. Causes him to fall before Dean and let sobs overcome him as he clutches pathetically at his feet. Dean is alive. Hallelujah. Castiel knows very well he deserves no such miracle, but he will wholeheartedly accept it and praise the gods every day of his miserable life for it.

“Cas— Your majesty?” Dean sounds confused. He sounds many other things as well, but Castiel only cares that Dean is _alive_ and has a voice. Granted, a deeper one than he recalls.

Castiel realizes belatedly that there was an implied question there, and he pulls back just enough to look up at Dean through teary eyes. He watches as Dean motions away his guards, who have started to draw their swords, and then turns back to Castiel with a frown that does not belong on so angelic a face.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks warily. He used to look at Castiel so openly, or so Castiel thought; now he is guarded, and in his heart Castiel can’t find it in him to blame Dean.

“He told me you were dead,” he says by way of explanation. That explains it all, does it not? It should explain why he didn’t come sooner, why he didn’t rush to Dean’s rescue?

Even to himself, the excuses sound weak.

Dean’s expression is something to behold as he takes in the news. His stony neutrality morphs into open surprise, then fixes into an angry scowl. “He would, wouldn’t he,” he snarls, fists clenched. There’s a fire there, something dark and primal that makes Castiel shudder.

The movement catches Dean’s attention, and he tears his gaze away from the middle distance and back to Castiel. He gives a half smile, one that might almost be genuine. “I’m not dead.”

Castiel nods.

Dean nudges him with his feet and Castiel reluctantly lets go, moves to give Dean room to stand.

“Let’s go talk,” Dean says loudly, offering a hand. “Alone,” he says pointedly to the rest of the room.

It is then of course that Castiel remembers that they are not already alone; that he is yet a king, yet he all but prostrated himself before this man, this usurper, this rebel. It’s unbecoming at the very least, certainly scandalous enough that should news reach his sister, Castiel will never hear the end of it.

He cares not. The breach in decorum is meaningless. He would have gladly endured much worse to undo Dean’s death; now that Dean’s here, Castiel has by no means forgotten the unspoken prayers.

“ _Dean,”_ a boy protests, though the boy nearly over them both. His cheeks have not yet lost their boyish roundness, and Castiel guesses the boy is nearing manhood but still years away from truly claiming the title.

“You heard me, Sam,” Dean says. “Alone. Me and Cas— _the king_ , we have a lot to discuss and very little need of an audience while we do it.”

Castiel looks at the boy with renewed interest. So this is the younger brother, the one that inadvertently started this whole mess, though he deserves least blame of them all, perhaps. He doesn’t see much familial resemblance between the brothers. Perhaps if he’d known their parents, he could see the connection, or perhaps if they were more at ease he might see something of their smiles or mannerisms; as it is, he finds nothing.

Sam does not share his interest; he scowls at his king and looks as though he has some choice words for him. For a moment, Castiel is reminded of Anna, and his heart softens. If Sam has something to say to him—and who would not, given how he has treated his brother—he will allow the boy his chance.

Just not right now.

“Fine,” Sam huffs in annoyance, apparently satisfied with his brother’s orders. Or perhaps he sees no malice in Castiel that could bring his brother harm.

Dean spares his brother a grateful look, a small slip in the facade of command he’s doned since Castiel entered the room, and beckons Castiel to follow. He doesn’t look over his shoulder or slow his stride, but makes right for the small chamber adjoining the great hall, one that no doubt leads to a private study or parlor.

As soon as the heavy door closes behind them, Dean rounds on Castiel. Not in anger, no, it’s much too controlled for that, but there’s some unspoken emotion there.

“You thought I was dead?” he asks through grit teeth.

All Castiel wants in the world is to reach out and touch Dean, to truly feel that he’s alive and well, that he’s _real_ and not merely some cruel trick of his imagination. His fingers twitch with the need, but he suppresses it. He has no right to smooth the worried lines beneath Dean’s eyes, to whisper soothing words or promises that things will be better.

But he does at least get to talk to Dean; it is a small thing to be allowed as much, enough that Castiel almost relishes it.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Alastair wrote me some time ago of a fire in the servants’ quarters. He said you were among those who died.”

Dean snorts. “As you can well see, I was not.” He crosses his arms over his chest; it pulls at the cuffs of his shirt and his sleeves, revealing angry red marks on his arms. Castiel’s eyes immediately dart down, try to trace the lines and find a cause—

Dean carefully adjusts his arms so that any bare skin is covered.

“I was already in the dungeons by the time the fire broke out. The sadistic bastard, he should never have done that. That was the final straw, the rallying point for those still on the fence about this little coup. After that, things went much faster. Sam gained traction in the village. Once I removed the immediate threat of Alastair, others rose up. They’d been discontent for so long, and finally had the chance to fight back.

Castiel can’t unsee the marks on Dean’s pale skin, nor forget the word _dungeon_ , but he says nothing; Dean seems lost in his story, and he knows better than to interrupt it.

“I make it sound like it was an easy thing, but it wasn’t. Even all together, we fought tooth and nail, because Alastair pays well for loyal guards and equips them well. But that fire…” He shakes his head. “We fought for the people whom he burned alive and all the others who’d disappeared into the dungeon, never to return. Or worse yet, to escape with only the pieces Alastair felt befitting to leave them with.”

As Dean goes silent, Castiel sees his opportunity.

“Dungeon?” he asks nervously, dreading the answer but needing to know. “I heard the rumors. Did he…? Are you…?”

The light in Dean’s eyes dies a little. He looks like that nervous kitchen boy all over again, though more ashamed of what Alastair did to him than what Castiel did. Strange, given they both used his body as they saw fit.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” Dean whispers. “Alastair did a great many terrible things to a great many people. Torture of all kinds, rape, brainwashing, mutilation… which do you worry he did to me?”

Castiel flinches to hear the list. He’s heard it all before, but not from _Dean_. All that lacks is the accusation in his tone to make Castiel truly feel terrible.

When he’d heard the truth about Alastair, there was a part of him that had been almost happy Dean died before he could have been subjected to the terrible depths of depravity that was Alastair’s mind. Now that he’s heard Dean admit that he _was_ in the dungeon…

“I worried about any unhappiness you might endure, however small,” Castiel says meekly, averting his eyes from Dean. “If there was a moment you were less than happy, I feared it and wished I had the power to erase it. To know that anything worse than mild unhappiness befell you…” He clenches his eyes shut and balls his hands into fists; it does nothing to prevent the tears from welling in his eyes again.

“If it’s any consolation,” Dean says, voice dead, “he did not rape or brainwash me. He only cut and burned me, whipped and beat and took pieces away, both manifest and ones only I will ever truly be able to notice missing. He tested the limits of what I could endure before blissfully passing out, and then started over somewhere else once I woke. I’m lucky to have nothing but scars to mark my time on his rack. Others were far less fortunate, and my time was but a few weeks.”

Weeks.

Beautiful, wonderful Dean endured _weeks_ with that sadistic bastard—

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out. “Dean, I don’t— I wish—”

“Did you know?”

Castiel’s eyes fly open and he blinks in confusion at Dean. “Know?” he croaks.

“Before you sent me here, did you know?”

“No!”

Dean shrugs far too casually. “Then there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“No!” he shouts, angry at Dean for dismissing this so easily. He’d rather Dean rage at him, make him feel a thousand times worse than he already does because he _deserves_ it. Instead he gets this? As though Dean thinks he’s worth none of the trouble?

“No!” he repeats just as adamantly as before. “I cared for you and I sent you away without taking the proper care to be sure you were going somewhere worthy of you. Do not absolve me of guilt in this. I have plenty of blame to take and I will take it all. As king, it is my job to know what happens in my kingdom. Somehow this escaped me and look where it got us. You tortured and your fellows broken or killed. The acts of my nobles are my responsibility. If you have any blame for Alastair—and I suspect you have much—then you have blame for me as well.”

To say Dean is taken aback is an understatement; he looks at Castiel like he’s grown a second head. It takes him a moment to recover, but even then he seems unsure what to make of that impassioned speech. “Cas— your majesty, you don’t have to—”

“I do have to, and I will. It’s done. The whole kingdom knows what Alastair’s done here, or they will within the week. I’ve sent missives to the farthest reaches of the kingdom, demanding that all know what he has done, that I take responsibility for my underling’s actions, and that I come here in peace to hear the grievances of those he wronged and to seek justice. I’m not sure what you think I should _not_ be doing in this matter, but I assure you, if there is _more_ I can do I am more than open to it.”

There’s nothing but stunned silence.

“What?” he asks in confusion.

“I just…” Dean turns away. Kicks at an empty chair and punches the wall half-heartedly. “It wasn’t supposed to be _you_ that came. There was no way around telling you. You’re king, and what we’ve done here, that warrants the king’s attention. But I was so sure you’d washed your hands of me, of all of this, that you’d send someone else to handle it. I truly never thought I’d see you again, unless it was from a distance while I was lost in some crowd…”

Castiel knows not what comes over him, but he takes a tentative step forward. He reaches out for Dean, but barely lets his fingers ghost along his sleeve.

“If that’s what you would prefer, I can leave.”

It kills him to say it. He’s just found Dean again after thinking him _dead_. He can think of nothing he would hate more than leaving Dean now or ever… but he has too long made decisions for Dean. It’s time for Dean to get a say.

Dean’s head snaps around, his full attention on Castiel and his eyes ablaze with angry hurt. “You’re trying to leave?”

“No,” Castiel says quickly, gently, wishing there was more he could do to relieve Dean’s distress. “I merely don’t wish to impose on you. If you wish me here, I am here. If you wish me gone, I am gone. If you wish me ill, then I hope ill befalls me. I’m yours to command, in whatever way you’d like.”

Dean is quiet for a long moment as he stares into Castiel’s very soul, looking for some sign of deception. Eventually he scoffs and looks away. “You were never such a poet before.”

“I was a fool before. Likely still am now, but am at least more aware of it.”

Dean laughs at that, a genuinely happy sound that fills the room and warms Castiel’s heart.

“Aye, it’s a good start.” Dean’s expression is almost fond. “I’ll confess, I don’t know what we do now.”

“About…?”

“Alastair. The castle. The rebellion that’s caught the kingdom’s eye. What happens now?”

Disappointment settles into his bones like a physical ache; he wants to talk about Dean and Dean alone, to find out everything that’s happened so he can begin a list of how to right it. Apparently that is too much to ask for, and Castiel carefully readjusts his expectations.

Very well. Business for now.

“I shall have to hear evidence against Alastair, then decide how to sentence him. Then it’s likely that I’ll have to return to the capital to speak with my council on how best to handle the settlement of this estate. Hopefully there are those among your party willing to attend such a meeting and offer your counsel.”

 _Hopefully **you** attend,_ is his silent addition that he dares not speak aloud. Not yet.

Dean nods thoughtfully, the hurt kitchen boy locked away and the battle hardened leader in his place. It’s a drastic change… but Castiel can’t say that he finds this new Dean any less appealing than the first.

“Evidence against Alastair? Nothing’s so easily arranged. Let’s start with my men and we’ll work from there, shall we?”

~ ~ ~

Dean watches as Castiel patiently listens to the testimony given by everyone willing to speak up. There are many, and it appears that he’s determined to hear each and every one of them, no matter how long it takes. He’s taken over the great hall to do so, though Dean’s surprised that Cas didn’t take over Dean’s stolen chair; instead he opts for a smaller, less ornate one that he places several steps lower.

There are some who can say what they wish to without breaking down, but a great many do. Tears and wavering voices are not uncommon, yet the king does not scold them or dismiss the emotional displays. He takes it all in stoically, or so it would appear; Dean’s surprised how adept he is at reading the angry concern hiding in the corners of his eyes. It’s been so long, but Dean now remembers how well he thought he knew the king, once upon a time. After he’d been sent here, after Cas’ letter… Dean assumed he’d maybe not known him at all.

Perhaps… perhaps Dean _does_ know his king. A very little.

Something proud, almost possessive comes over him at the thought.

He instantly checks the thought, and all the impulses that go with it; there was a time and a place when such things were allowed him, but they have no place here.

As if by some terrible coincidence, Cas turns his way at that very moment. Their eyes meet, and for the faintest of moments, the weariness in Cas’ gaze eases ever so slightly.

Dean’s heart flutters and it’s with a great force of willpower to turn away.

_It would be foolish to think anything of it. Don’t._

There are of course Castiel’s words to him but a few hours ago. It was all but a declaration of— of—

Dean dares not put a word to it, and he dares not think of anything Castiel said. The king was overcome with surprise; there’s no reason to think he meant any of it, at least not in the way Dean would like to think. The king is upset at himself, that much is clear, but Dean can’t account for it having much to do with _him_.

_If it does, if it **did** , it was for the boy I once was. He knows now I am lesser, that Alastair did things that cannot be undone. I will never again be the same kitchen boy the king might have harbored tender feelings towards._

_I am broken, and he feels guilty for his part in it. That is all it is, and you’d best not forget it._

With a shake his head, Dean brings himself back to the moment. Though he might not be required to act now, as de facto leader of this castle, he needs to be more than just physically present.

Unfortunately, that means turning his attention back to Castiel.

Cas continues to make note of everything said to him. It’s late into the night before they finish, but he shows no sign of fatigue and rushes no one. He issues orders to his own men discreetly, demanding food and drink be procured for those still in attendance, and in all ways looks regal and commanding.

And beautiful, Dean’s forced to acknowledge.

He’s seen Castiel a great many times. The king is handsome, there is no doubt of that, yet this display here is far from the quiet, almost shy man whom Dean served food to. As a kitchen boy, he’d had no occasion to view the king _as_ king. He’d only heard the stories of rebellion against his brothers, the heroics that surrounded his rise to the throne, but he’d never _seen_ any of it. When it was the two of them alone, it had always been in a world apart from that.

As a man, Cas was approachable; as a king, he is almost like a force of nature, one that Dean knows he will succumb to. Worse, he would gladly do so. His will would bend to Castiel’s if the king were but to ask—

Dean shifts uneasily on his feet and hopes the flush on his cheeks isn’t too apparent. Not that any eyes are turned his way (except of course the occasional look from Sam, ones that he steadfastly ignores).

It’s a great mercy when the last person finishes speaking. Castiel rises to his feet and thanks them all for their words, for their bravery not just in rebelling but in speaking to him today. He will take everything they say into account before he renders judgement.

The people scatter, tired now that the ordeal is almost at an end. Dean wants to disappear into the crowd as well, but he knows he cannot avoid the king.

“You are welcome to one of the bed chambers upstairs,” Dean says. “We don’t use Alastair’s room, for there is more… there is _evidence_ there, but there are guest rooms that might be serviceable to a king’s purposes.”

Cas, with his back to the rest of the hall, shows a brief moment of weakness; he rubs at his eyes, red creeping into them, and sighs.

“That’s fine. Any room with a bed will do. If need be, my men can make camp—”

“You’re king in a nobleman’s castle. Surely we can do better than a cot or hammock.”

“A nobleman’s castle,” Cas repeats slowly. “That implies a great many things that I’m not sure apply to the given circumstances.”

“Very well,” Dean acknowledges. “But this is our castle at the moment, and you have done us a great honor in visiting in person. Let us have your favor for the night. Stay.”

It’s as close to begging as he allows himself. He will not admit as much, but he fears if Castiel’s not within the walls of the castle, he might see better of this whole debacle and flee without a word. At least if he stays, Dean would get to see him one more time.

Cas lets out another sigh, one that speaks of a bone deep weariness. “Yes, alright. That— that’s perhaps a good idea.”

“Good.” He curses himself for smiling, but it’s easily remedied by calling over the nearest chambermaid. “Please have a room made ready for the king. He’ll be our guest for the night.”

“For three nights at least,” Castiel corrects. It certainly does _not_ make Dean’s stomach flutter to know the king plans to stay so long. “There is still much yet to do.”

“Three nights, then,” Dean says with more ease than he feels. “Can you prepare such a room?”

“Aye,” she says with a curtsy, one that’s directed as much to Dean as Castiel.

It’s a strange thing, to be a servant commanding other servants. What places him above the rest?

_Nothing, but I am an improvement to the last lord of this castle. That will have to do for now._

~ ~ ~

Despite how the day’s events have left him exhausted and drained, Dean cannot sleep. He paces the length of his own room, one far larger than he’s ever called his own but still very modest.

He wouldn’t have even taken this room at all, but Bobby had insisted and Victor had seconded the notion. They made valid points, mostly centering around his role as leader and how it would be easy for the king to dismiss him if he did not take his own position seriously, but in the end it was the prospect of sleeping in a real bed. He’d felt nothing but hard wood (and worse) for weeks on end, and a soft mattress to ease the aches that still lingered… it was a temptation he was not fit to pass up.

And now he faces another temptation he cannot long resist: Dean knows if left to his own devices, he’ll end up in Cas’ bed.

Three nights are an eternity, and to know the king is so close… that he might perhaps _welcome_ the warmth of Dean’s body, enough to overlook the scars and burns and all the marks that show just how ill Alastair used him—

Dean growls and punches the nearest wall in frustration. Blood oozes from his knuckles, another injury on an already long list, and a vivid reminder why he cannot go to Castiel, not ever again.

He fears rejection. He fears the look in Castiel’s eyes when he sees all that his clothes hide. He fears that he misunderstood all Castiel said, or worse, he did not but that the king will change his mind once he has Dean again.

“Excuse me,” he says as he peeks out into the hallway. There is a guard on duty, and she snaps to attention at the sound of Dean’s voice. “Can you fetch my brother?”

Without waiting a response, Dean shuts himself back in his room. It is late, but he has no doubt Sam will come. His brother is likely waiting for this very summons. If it weren’t a matter of show, he’d likely have already shown up of his own accord, but Sam more than Dean sees the use of Dean acting the role of master.

 _It’s political,_ he reminds Dean over and over. _The fighting is over, and now only politics and bureaucracy remains._

Damn kid was always too smart.

There’s barely a knock on the heavy wood before Sam’s in the room, dressed and wide awake as if to confirm Dean’s suspicions.

“Sam,” he says with as much of a smile as he can muster.

“Dean,” Sam says back. There are a million things in his brother’s eyes, things as of yet left unspoken, and Dean waits patiently to see which will be first.

“You never told me the truth about you and the king,” Sam says bluntly after a moment’s hesitation.

Dean starts. This is the worst topic Sam could broach, so it should not at all surprise him it’s the one his brother chooses. He asked Sam here to _keep_ him from thinking too much about the king, now he has to _talk_ about him.

“I worked in the kitchens. I served him dinner. What else is there to tell?” he asks through grit teeth. His knuckles ache.

(Though he will scant admit it, his heart does too).

Sam gives Dean a look, one that conveys complete disbelief and utter annoyance all at once. “I’m not a child. You don’t have to mince words for my protection, and if you’re embarrassed, you shouldn’t be—”

“I slept with him,” Dean says, more to shut Sam up than anything else. If he gets it over with, then he’ll never have to say it again.

“I slept with him,” he repeats, this time collapsing on the edge of his bed. He stares at the floorboards for he cannot bear to see what Sam thinks of him now. “Many times. That’s how you got your damned scholarship. That’s how we ended up in this mess. I slept with him, he rewarded me, and then just as quickly grew tired of me.”

There’s a long silence, filled only with the pounding of Dean’s pulse.

Sam sits on the bed next to him. The frame creaks and gives way, and it reminds Dean briefly of the bed they shared more than a decade ago in their childhood one.

“You’re stupid if you think him indifferent,” Sam says plainly.

Dean’s neck cracks, he snaps his head so quickly to gawk at his brother. “What did you say?”

“I’ll admit, I don’t know the whole of the story. You’re clearly leaving things out, and I have yet to speak to the king, but there’s one thing that’s more than obvious. He cares about you, more than I thought it possible for men like that to care about people like us—”

“He doesn’t.” Dean swallows the lump in his throat. There’s nothing he’d rather hear more, but he dare not believe a word of it. “He can’t.”

“Dean, he fell at your feet when he saw you were alive. He openly wept before us all. Never mind how often his gaze turned to you all evening. He was very dutiful and attentive to the rest of us, but you were clearly always on his mind.”

“It’s guilt. It’s no more than that.”

Sam snorts. “Yes, I daresay he feels very guilty for all that’s passed, the more so because he loves—”

“Sam!” Dean barks. He pushes off the bed and paces the room again. “You are mistaken. You’re young, and I’ll admit I too once thought the king’s regard might be—” He winces and wishes for nothing more than to forget he’d ever been so naive. “He cares for our plight to be sure, but he is no more moved by mine than anyone else’s, unless it is because he directly had a hand in it.”

His brother gives him an incredulous look. “Dean, what did he _say_ to you—”

“Please,” Dean begs, barely above a whisper. “I cannot speak of him anymore. I know you mean to help, but I… I _cannot_.”

It is not often that Dean begs. Even at the worst of it, he never gave Alastair the satisfaction; now he shamelessly begs Sam to leave it be.

“Fine,” Sam eventually says. “I’ll stop. For _now_. But if I find out he’s treated you poorly—”

“Sam—”

“I don’t care if he’s king and if he’s helping us now, if he’s misused you, I won’t be afraid to tell him as much.”

 _Then do us all a favor and don’t speak to him,_ Dean nearly says. Thankfully he thinks better of it; there would be no surer way to get Sam riled up than to say such a thing.

“The king did nothing I can fault him for,” Dean assures him. _What fault can there be in dismissing someone so beneath you once you’ve had your fun? I was lucky to have what time I did, and lucky that he was willing to support Sam._ “Can we talk of something else? Will you resume your studies once this mess is settled? I saw you’d received a letter from your headmistress…”

The brothers speak of happier things for long enough that Dean’s nerves settle. He yawns and falls asleep so abruptly, he has neither time to undress nor the wherewithal to bid Sam good night. In the morning he’ll be embarrassed, but for now as he vaguely feels his brother tucking him beneath the covers, Dean feels nearly content.

His brother is here and well. He himself is much better off than he has any rights to be.

And moreover, the king will be here two more nights at least.

~ ~ ~

Castiel has learned to deal with lonely nights. All his life, he’s been alone to his thoughts, to his conscience, when he lays himself to bed. There were of course those brief moments of relief after he became king, and then later the contentment Dean brought him, but always he was alone.

It has never bothered him so much as it does tonight.

Dean is _here_ , possibly but a few rooms away. Castiel still has trouble with the marvel of Dean being alive at all, and willing to speak to him. Hope, eternal and stupid, burns in him and he wishes to see Dean again. If only he could beg for Dean’s forgiveness—

But he won’t. He’s said all that he intends on the matter. If Dean wishes to, he will approach Castiel. It’s no longer an issue Castiel can force, not given their history. For too long he’s taken advantage of Dean, imposed himself where he might not have been wanted. No matter how much he longs for Dean’s presence, it’s not appropriate for him to seek it out in the middle of the night, unchaperoned.

If he was weak before, he can be again, so it’s best to avoid the temptation of beautiful green eyes, plush lips, and handsome features that are, at least in Castiel’s mind, perfect in every way.

~ ~ ~

He must speak with Alastair. The law demands it. His pride demands it. Everyone will demand it. Not seeing him will undermine anything else that happens here.

It’s a task he both dreads and longs for the encounter. What will he see reflected in Alastair’s eyes? Condemnation of his own part in all this? Can he truly be trusted not to tear the man apart as soon as they’re alone together? What might Alastair say of Dean? Does he know…?

Such thoughts plague him throughout the morning as he splashes cold water on his face and gets dressed. After the time on the road, at double pace no less, he longs for a proper bath. It’ll have to wait; it’s a ridiculous luxury, given the circumstances. Instead he puts on the cleanest and most kingly of his travel garments and allows a shy squire to show him down to the great hall.

Dean once again takes Alastair’s usurped place at head of the hall, but Castiel is given a place of honor at one of the tables. It’s as he expected, but he laments that the seat puts him too far away from Dean to talk to him. Instead he makes polite conversation with those around him, a man named Rufus and a woman named Ellen. Their manners are not at all what Castiel’s used to in court, but he’s charmed by them nonetheless.

As Castiel makes smalltalk and eats the honeyed porridge served him, he cannot help how often his gaze wanders to Dean. At first he excuses it as him checking up on Dean, to make sure he is not more injured than he initially suspected, but by the end of the meal, there’s no denying his true purpose. He wants to drink in his fill of Dean, in any way he can for as long as he can, before he inevitably returns to the capital and never sees him again.

Because he’s so preoccupied with Dean, it takes Castiel some time to notice that as often as he looks Dean’s way, Sam looks to him. The boy’s expression is not hostile per se, but it is protective. And curious. He can’t fault Sam for either, given what’s happened, and resigns himself to speaking with the boy privately should the opportunity arise.

If he’s half as clever as he looks, that opportunity will be sooner rather than later, and at a time not of Castiel’s choosing.

He smiles into his porridge. He looks forward to that meeting, whatever the outcome.

After the breakfast dishes have been cleared away, Dean and his entourage rise and meet Castiel.

“You’ll want to go to the dungeons, I expect.” Dean’s tone is bland, disinterested, but there’s a tightness around his eyes, a tension in his arms, that worries Castiel.

He’s forced to ignore such things.

“I suppose I must,” he confirms, and follows when Dean beckons.

They say nothing along the way. Both Dean’s guards and Castiel’s break an illusion of privacy. It’s a shame, but Castiel’s almost glad of it. He knows not what he can say to Dean to make this right, and in the absence of an audience, he fears there would be nothing but rejection or silence.

Dean pulls open the door to the dungeon himself; his posture makes it obvious he has no intention of following.

“He’s the only one down there. All his supporters were either killed or changed sides. Should be easy to find.” There’s a moment of hesitation. Dean licks his lips, can’t quite meet Castiel’s eye for a moment. “Do you need anything? Would you like me to—?”

“No,” he says gently. He would not ask this of Dean, when he so clearly does not wish to see Alastair again. “I can handle it from here. Thank you.”

His hand reaches out to touch Dean, to give a point of contact that would hopefully offer reassurance, but he catches himself and stops.

Before he can gauge Dean’s reaction, he turns away and heads down the stairs.

It’s dim, despite the torches lining the wall. Given what little Castiel can make out of the room, of the torture devices that have been dismantled or broken, he’s not so sure that’s a bad thing. He can barely imagine the horrors that occured down here. Part of him wishes he _could_ see it, to truly experience it and know to his shame what he allowed through inaction; the other part knows he is fixing it, and that will have to be enough.

Dean’s right; Alastair is the only living soul in the dungeon. Even the rats have abandoned him, though the smell of their feces permeates the air.

Good. It’s not as much suffering as he deserves, but it’s something.

It takes a long moment after Castiel steps into the light for Alastair to say anything. They silently appraise each other, Castiel finding nothing he likes and Alastair clearly working to piece together who this man is and why he’s here. Soon though, Alastair’s face lightens with recognition and he smiles.

“Your Majesty,” he says with an attempt at a bow, though his shackles keep him from more than limply banging his hands against the wall. “I take it you’re here to put an end to to this nonsensical rebellion.”

His temper flares briefly. Nonsensical? As if there were no merit to their grievances—

Something of Castiel’s thoughts must be apparent on his face, for Alastair’s face hardens slightly, almost imperceptibly in the flickering torchlight.

“So you’re taking the peasants’ side, are you?” He tsks and shakes his head, as if scolding a child. “They’re nothing but dogs, beasts in the shape of men who are lucky to be able to serve us, and you pick them over _me_ , a man of noble birth—”

Alastair gets no further before Castiel’s hands grab at his shirt, his fingers tangling in the sodden cotton. He wants to wring this man’s neck. Wants to destroy him by inches over the course of years, decades, as long as possible so that this creature masquerading as a man might know some small measure of the pain he’s inflicted.

 _I am not my brothers,_ he reminds himself. _I am not Michael or Luke. I will not become a monster in the wake of other monsters. I must be better._

“Your inability to see the humanity of others and your own inhumanity is why you’re here. You have no one to blame but yourself, and you’d do well to remember that. A bit of remorse might go a long way towards mercy.”

“You here to kill me, your majesty?” Alastair drawls, smiling like he’s not the one chained to a wall and covered in his own filth. There’s an edge there, though, like he’s seeing the king in a new light.

He very much wants to do just that. If Castiel were a weaker man, he’d oblige the baser instinct on the spot. But he did not survive his family and become king by giving into such impulses, no matter how justified they might be.

It takes a great deal of effort to pry his hands free and take a step back. The air is somehow less noxious the farther away he moves; Alastair even pollutes the _air_.

“You will die,” Castiel confirms, voice even and kingly despite the way his heart hammers in his chest. “But it will not be by my hands.”

Alastair smirks, like he’s won a huge victory. He licks his lips as if about to speak, and Castiel immediately cuts him off before he can.

“You completely misunderstand me,” Castiel says sharply, “if you think that means you will not die soon. You owe these people their pound of flesh, and I’m much inclined to give it to them.”

A sneer twists Alastair’s face into something actually befitting the grotesqueness of his character. “I am a noble by birth. These bastards you mean to align yourself with, they deserve nothing but what we choose to spare them! And you’d—” Once again, his expression changes, this time to knowing disgust. “It’s all because of that damned kitchen boy. You bed him, and all of a sudden you think it’s—”

Red clouds his vision. His body remembers the ache of his hand finding its mark, connecting with the clammy flesh of Alastair’s face, but he himself cannot recall the moment. In the aftermath, his knuckles bloody and Alastair hissing pathetically in pain, it’s only that muscle memory that tells him what he’s done.

In all his life, he’s never punched a man. He’s glad he knows how.

“As I said,” he says as he wipes the blood off his hand, “you are here because of your own choices. You are here because of your own disgusting character. No matter who else was involved, you and I, we would have always ended up here.”

He doesn’t stay to hear if Alastair responds. He’s dignified the man with his presence for longer than he deserves. Let him wallow in his own failings in what little time is left him.

Castiel knows it is very little indeed.

~ ~ ~

Dean is still waiting for him at the dungeon’s entrance. It’s a welcome surprise, especially when Dean looks utterly relieved to see Castiel emerge uninjured and alone.

“How’d it go?” Dean asks, voice low and hoarse and giving away much of what he’s endured these past few months.

He flexes his right hand reflexively. It stings, and will hurt more on the morrow. A small price to pay for shutting up that asshole.

“As well as can be expected. Tell your people that justice will be served today.”

Dean gapes at him. “Today?”

“Today,” he confirms. “In the courtyard, just past noon. Spread the word, the courtyard is welcome to all who wish to come.”

He wants Alastair dead and this matter done with. Every moment that man still breathes is an affront to Castiel, to Dean, to these people, to every good man and woman in the world. Waiting even another day is too much.

Again, he has no desire to leave Dean, but both have much to do. Dean must gather his people, and Castiel must contact Anna and let her know all that’s happened. The letter takes the rest of the morning, mostly because he has to write two: one more formal, from the king to an attendant he has left in charge, and the other less so, from a brother to his sister. He spares no detail, except a date of his return. There is much business here to distract him, though in truth he knows there’s another reason he might delay.

Foolish, but he can’t help the indulgence. He merely hopes it won’t lead to further ones.

As soon as the sun has passed its zenith, Dean knocks at Castiel’s door. He is not alone, attended by Bobby and a few guards. Castiel nods and follows them outside; there is no need for words, not for this.

When Castiel arrives, everything has already been prepared. Alastair, with a fresh black eye and bound in chains, stands alone on a raised platform for all to see. Guards stand at any possible escape point, but Alastair makes no attempt to flee; instead he eyes the crowd contemptuously, as if they are somehow beneath him.

What an ass.

The people seem to agree. They whisper, they point, they laugh, they sneer. Not a single sorry face stands among them, and there are so many of them. The crowd barely fits in the courtyard, and the more Castiel sees as he walks to the platform, the more he realizes that it truly does _not_ fit. There are people on the walls, watching from the castle windows, lined up on the drawbridge. He can’t see it, but he’ll wager they trail all the way down the road to the village.

It is quite the crowd, impressive given how little time he gave them.

People love an execution, but this… this is different.

Castiel stands on the platform, several steps away from Alastair. Even now he doesn’t wish to be tainted by such an evil man.

“You have been wronged,” Castiel says to the people. They catch the boom of his voice and go deathly silent to hear every word. “You have been greatly wronged by the man before you. Alastair has done terrible things, and he deserves a terrible punishment befitting those acts. However,” he pauses and casts a look at Alastair, who flinches when he feels the king’s gaze, “I have not the right to kill Alastair.”

He doesn’t pause long enough to hear any outcry that might come in response to those words. “I do not mean that Alastair is to live. I merely say that _I_ do not have the right to kill him, for Alastair as taken nothing from me personally. He has abused my people, that is true, and abused the trust I placed in him, but I daresay I shall suffer the loss easily. No, it is _you_ that he hurt. _You_ that he tormented, _your_ families that he devastated. It is not right that I should cast judgement in this affair, so I hand that judgement to those he wronged.”

He gestures to the crowd. “I give _you_ the right to judge this man, to exact whatever punishment you see fit.”

Before his words can truly settle in—he can see nothing but shocked faces from the crowd—he motions for the guards to follow him as he walks away. Castiel’s barely off the platform, shielded by those very same guards, before the stones start flying. Angry shouts, the loud sound of rock hitting flesh, they carry Castiel to the castle entrance. Not once does he look back. He knows all too well what he’ll see.

Once inside the walls, he gives his men orders to do nothing but prevent a riot. He wants no one hurt but Alastair, not even by a stray rock if possible. They nod and depart as quickly as possible to do as they’re told.

Such eager obedience… Castiel wonders if that’s how Alastair’s men behaved, even when they knew what their obedience brought to others.

The stoning is surprisingly orderly. It lasts longer than Alastair’s life, of that he’s sure, yet no one is hurt. When they’re done, there will no doubt be a feast and merriment. They will rejoice here and in the great hall and in the village. They will laugh and drink and feel the relief of a reign of terror ended. And alone, abandoned on the platform, there will be little enough left of Alastair to even know it was him. Just his chains and a bloody mess, a smear along the wooden blanks.

Considering what he did to some of his victims, it’s more than fitting.

Castiel hopes that being a part of it will help ease their burdens. It was one of the few things he could offer them, though he hopes by no means that it will be the last. Come hell or high water, Castiel will do all he can to make things right.

~ ~ ~

As predicted, there is much merrymaking to fill the evening. The drawbridge is left down and the villagers and former rebels alike move freely between castle and village, laughing and singing and in all ways rejoicing. Castiel hasn’t seen spirits so high since… well since his own small cavalry defeated Michael and then Lucifer in successive battles.

His coronation was of course well received, but the thrill of a hard fought battle won after years of enduring terrible conditions… nothing can compare to that feeling of elation.

It was one of the few times in his life he got drunk while in a good mood. He’d been so relieved, when his men started dancing he’d been obliged to join in. Clumsy as he might be, he’d enjoyed himself immensely.

Dancing is of course a part of these festivities as well. There is no better way to show that you’ve conquered your conqueror than to show your spirits unbroken. The people here, they are very much unbroken.

Most of the tables in great hall have been pushed aside, a band plays folk tunes in one corner, and dance after dance brings cheers and bubbles of laughter with each note. Admittedly, his attention has been fixed on the figure of Dean, dancing awkwardly with the girls and boys too young to tempt other partners. It’s sweet of him, another endearing quality added to an already endless list, and it makes Castiel’s heart ache in all the right ways.

Anna had questioned him before if this is love, if it truly could be when they knew so little of each other. Castiel always knew he’d been foolish in pinning so much of his happiness on Dean’s shoulders, but there was no helping it. He loved the young man, no matter how much or little Dean deserved it.

There has not been a moment since Castiel arrived here that he hasn’t been made painfully aware of how much Dean _does_ deserve it. He is remarkable in so many ways, strong but gentle, beautiful, loyal, protective, an adorably terrible dancer—

A figure steps in front of him, completely blocking his view. Castiel blinks and shifts his gaze upward, feeling a sense of vertigo as he has to tilt his head up and up and up before he finds himself meeting Sam’s eye.

 _The boy must be growing like a weed,_ he thinks to himself. _He must be three or four years Dean’s junior, yet he’s nearly the same height. And still growing._

“Sam,” Castiel says with a nod.

“Can I have a moment of your time?” the boy asks. He has a determined look about him, but there’s the slightest of trembles in his lips that reveal his worry that this request is too impertinent and will not be endured.

“Of course.” He moves down along the wooden bench and motions for Sam to take a seat.

He does not.

“Alone, if possible. Your majesty,” he quickly adds, as if the title will make the request more palatable.

It does not, but this is a conversation that is owed. No matter how little Castiel would like to leave his comfortable seat with the easy view of Dean, he will oblige this young man’s request.

“Lead the way,” he says. He assumes Sam has enough knowledge of the castle to have a place in mind. With little encouragement, Sam stalks off with a confident stride and heads directly for the room where he and Dean had spoken upon his arrival. Castiel waves off his guards and follows.

The sound of the music is dulled once the wooden door clicks into place, but it’s still unmistakable. Castiel could tap out the beat with his foot if he so chose, sing along even, if he but knew the words.

He doesn’t, so it’s all too easy to give Sam his full attention.

“Sam, if this is about—”

“Do you love my brother?”

Castiel’s startled. Not by the question, but by how direct it is and how earnest Sam looks. Sam seems unfazed at having interrupted a king, _his_ king, and it speaks well of him, strangely enough.

Castiel admires people who see him as a person more than a rank.

He smiles slightly as he answers. “I should think that obvious.”

“It is,” Sam says simply. “But it’s good to hear you admit it. Did you ever tell him though?”

 _Of course I did,_ he thinks. _With every kiss, with every embrace, with every mere glance, love has been written into it all._

But he stops short and truly considers. Remembers Anna’s plea with him to actually _talk_ to Dean, a plea he ignored for his own selfish reasons.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I thought… I thought I’d made it clear, but I can’t recall ever saying the words out loud.”

Sam nods, as if he expected as much. “Why did you send my brother away?”

“To be closer to you,” he answers automatically. He thinks that reason more than sufficient, but a hard look crosses Sam’s face; he will not accept so easy an answer. With a resigned sigh and slumped shoulders, Castiel turns away but continues to speak.

“Your brother and I… I was quite fond of him. I took… advantage of his position and my own. It was wicked of me, and I knew as much at the time, but I appeased my conscience when your brother would smile at me. How could he so easily acquiesce if he were indifferent, or if he were unwilling? It was an easy lie to tell myself, since it was one I so longed to hear.

“Eventually, I could bear it no more. I asked Dean what he most wanted, what I could do for him. He asked for your schooling. An easy request, in the grand scheme of things, and I would have given him so much more if he’d asked for it. So I gave him what he _did_ ask for, and did my best to give him the things he did _not_. He would want to be close to his brother, so I moved him to this estate. I did not do my due diligence in that regard, and I will forever be sorry for it. While Alastair deserved what came to him, Dean in no way should have ever found himself tangled up—”

“Wait.” Sam once again interrupts, at so shocking a time that Castiel unconsciously turns back towards him. His brow is furrowed in confusion. “The only reason you sent Dean here was so he could be close to me?”

Castiel sees confusion but the willingness to believe in Sam’s face. All he has to do is confirm it, and the boy will leave him be.

Having come so far and spoken so much truth, however, Castiel finds himself unable to stop now.

“And…” He swallows the lump in his throat; speaking of such things brings back memories as painful as they are shameful. “And to be free of me. I’d imposed myself too much and too long. He deserved happiness out from under my shadow. In the capital, no matter where I put him or if I stopped our encounters, he would always be the boy the king bed. Such rumors, they could not follow him here. He could start over, you _both_ could, and make choices for yourselves.

“And perhaps… perhaps if he were far enough away, I would not be so tempted by him. I would not put myself in the situation where I would continue to take choices away from him. I sent him away because I thought it was best for him, that it was what he wanted but dared not ask for.”

There is a long silence following his declaration, one that lingers enough that Castiel shifts uncomfortably on his feet.

“Shit,” the boy curses. He looks like he wants to cry, a reaction Castiel can’t account for at all. “You really do love him.”

“Yes,” Castiel says slowly. “I thought we’d already covered that.”

“He has to know. You have to tell him.”

“I don’t think—”

“He thinks you grew bored of him and sent him here to be rid of him!” Now there’s passion in Sam, anger where before there’d been none. “He truly thinks you indifferent to him, or perhaps merely fond out of nostalgia or guilt! You must tell him! He deserves to know, and it can’t be from me. He won’t believe me, first of all, and it will mean something coming from you. Never mind that you _owe_ it to him.”

Castiel is too stunned to speak. The ridiculousness of him growing bored of Dean, of him being _indifferent_ , he simply can’t process such a notion. He would sooner grow bored of breathing than of Dean.

“I don’t… understand,” he confesses. “Why would Dean think such things? Are you sure?”

But even as he speaks, he knows the truth of it. He did not speak to Dean about moving him here. He did not speak of his feelings, his reasons. He made a choice for Dean that he thought would be best for him, but in doing so again robbed Dean of any voice in the matter. No matter how wrong the assumption of indifference was, Castiel can’t fault him for it.

Nor can he chastise Sam for misunderstanding his own brother. Who in the world would know him better? Clearly not Castiel, for all his self-important belief that he might.

“Fuck,” he hisses, an acknowledgement of his own guilt. “Would he… would he allow me to speak with him? Surely if there was any chance of… of…” He cannot name it, dares not even give the notion of returned affection life in his own thoughts. “Surely I’ve missed my chance.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. He actually looks like he pities Castiel. “But you have to try. For both your sakes, and because Dean should know and for once get a say in what happens in his life. Neither you nor I nor anyone else can make this decision for him, but he must have all the facts first.”

Numbly, Castiel nods along. A loud trumpet melody, too giddy for his current mood, reminds him that Dean is but a hundred feet away.

A hundred feet away, and believing Castiel could be anything other than hopelessly in love with him.

“Not tonight,” he says, whispers it really, but he knows Sam hears from the tension in his body. “I will talk to him. Tomorrow, first chance I get, I promise you that. But tonight is about a great many things already. It would be too much to add this as well.”

Sam worries his lip; clearly he wants to protest, but he accepts the king’s promise. “Tomorrow,” he reiterates. “Before breakfast. Come to his room and I’ll do all I can to make sure he’s there and alone.”

His chest aches with anticipation. It’s all he can do to answer Sam. “Tomorrow morning, then. Before breakfast.”

~ ~ ~

Dean sleeps better than he ever has under this roof. Knowing Alastair is dead is such a profound relief he can’t put it into words, but his mind and his body both instinctively _know_ it and let him fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. For so many years he’s worked the kitchens, needed to rise at the crack of dawn if not before to get the days’ meals started. It’s built into his blood at this point, to wake with the crows.

Today he’s startled awake by a knock at his chamber door.

Well rested but groggy, he stumbles to the door. He’s still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he opens the door, barely even sparing a smile for his brother.

“Ugh, it’s you,” he grouses as he turns back towards his room. He’d best wash up and get dressed, there’s another day to get through.

“It’s me,” Sam confirms, his voice far too cheerful.

If Dean weren’t busy planning out his agenda, he’d be more suspicious. As it is, he ignores his brother’s good mood as he splashes water on his face. The coolness goes a long way to waking him up, though he finds himself longing for the warmth of his bed.

“I hope to visit Lady Rowena soon,” Sam says. “My friend Kevin wrote me recently to tell me about what I’ve missed, and I think it’s not so much that I’ll fall behind. Obviously I’ll need to catch up, but if I’m diligent I should be able to complete the work in time…”

Dean lets him prattle on, and luckily he needs little encouragement from Dean to do so. Sam’s talked about continuing his studies, something with Dean encourages it, but it’s been all too easy for him to put it off. With Alastair gone and Cas here to manage things, the excuses are all but gone. All that’s left is to figure out Dean’s personal situation…

_There are always kitchens. I’m sure the inn would hire me if need be—_

Both his own thoughts and Sam’s monologue are cut off by a curt knock at the door. Dean waits for Bobby or Ellen to burst in, or for a request from one of the others he sees so frequently, but only silence fills the space.

Silence… and Sam’s sharp exhale.

“Finally,” he mumbles and rushes to block Dean’s path to the door. “Promise me you’ll at least listen,” he demands, as if Dean has any idea what this is about.

“Listen?” Dean repeats dumbly. “To what? To _who_? Sam, what’s going on—?”

It does no good, Sam’s already at the door. From where he stands, he can’t see who’s there, and Sam disappears outside before he can even think to ask.

But then seconds later the familiar form of his brother is replaced by none other than the king.

The king— _Castiel_ —is in his room.

There’s a stabbing pain at his heart as he sees Castiel lock the door behind him. He’d once dreamed of this very moment so long ago he barely remembers it, and now the reminder pains him. That’s not what the king’s here for. No, it can’t be that. He’s here on business, to discuss the execution yesterday or plans for the future of the estate.

He’s not here for _Dean._

“Your majesty.” His knees and back are too rigid for him to even fake a bow, and he’s too frozen to even nod in acknowledgement of the king. He’s well aware that his tone is clipped and his face is likely broadcasting his pain and discomfort, but there’s nothing for it.

He feels trapped, and he needs Castiel to speak so that he can concentrate on anything other than simply making sure one breath follows the next.

“Dean,” Castiel says, clearly put off by the formal tone. Undeterred, though, he steps further into the room. Not much further, just away from the door, like he’s worried about a skittish horse. “Would it be okay if we talk?”

“Of course,” he says, because who is he to refuse a king? He’s _never_ been in a position to do so, even if he felt he could defy Alastair. There were reasons then, it was life or death; now he has nothing but his own embarrassing past to interfere, and it’s not enough to risk upsetting the king.

Cas hesitates. He’s adorably flustered, and it almost soothes Dean’s own nerves to know that Castiel can be as disquieted about their former relationship as he sometimes is.

Even if he doesn’t have the same heartache from it.

“Your brother’s brought some things to my attention recently,” Cas starts slowly. He avoids Dean’s eye, only flashing them his way on occasion. “It made me realize there are things I need to say to you, that you have every right to hear.”

He knows not what expression is frozen on his face, but panic wells up inside him.

“You talked to Sam?” he repeats numbly. He’d asked Sam not to get involved and had watched his brother carefully to make sure he didn’t get such an opportunity. Admittedly, he’d been caught up in the celebration last night. It was entirely possible—nay, _likely_ —that Sam would have taken advantage of that unguarded evening to seek out Castiel.

… And then conspired with him to arrange this private meeting. Bastard.

“Don’t blame him.” Cas’ voice is gentle, and his words show all too well how accurately he could read the way Dean’s thoughts tended. After having misread Castiel so badly, it irks him to know the same is not true for Cas. “He was merely trying to help, and I fear he’s been far more thoughtful than I have in the matter, an error for which I’ll never be able to undo or truly atone for.”

“Look, your majesty, you needn’t trouble yourself on my account—”

“Castiel.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“Please don’t call me your majesty. I am your king, yes, but I would hope you see me as a man first and foremost.”  

Heat rises to his cheeks. Oh, there is no need to worry about him neglecting the king’s manhood. Dean is more than well aware that the king is a man, flesh and blood and very much alive. He has intimate knowledge of all of that, knowledge that is hard to ignore no matter how much better off he’d be if he did.

Kings and kitchen boys, even rebellious ones like him, they don’t end up together. Castiel tried to give him the only happy ending that would ever come from their union, and perhaps might still try to. A position somewhere pleasant and a future for his brother, but a life very apart from his. That is how it will go.

_And if he’s talked to Sam, that’s likely what this conversation will be about… Our two, very separate paths from here._

“Castiel, then,” he says a little too sharply. Even he winces at it and tries again. “Castiel… You owe me nothing. You made mistakes, and you’ve righted them. I understand you didn’t mean to send me here, but Alastair’s paid for his crimes and I’m fine—”

“I have many things I would like to change, that of course among them.” Castiel’s interruption is gentle, and he pauses to give Dean a chance to speak again before he continues; Dean doesn’t, so Cas fills the silence. “But I’m not here to talk about Alastair or the events that followed your arrival here. What I have to say pertains to before that, while you were still in the capital.”

The unexpectedness of the topic confuses him for a moment, then he rushes to avoid it.

“You needn’t say a thing on the matter.” The words scramble on top of each other on the way out. Better he say it than have to hear it from Castiel, though. “I was a diversion, a pleasant way to spend the evenings. If I thought more of it, then that was my fault. I don’t—”

“It meant everything to me,” Cas says bluntly, with such a depth of feeling hidden behind the declaration that Dean’s jaw clicks shut and he nearly staggers backward in the face of it.

“What?” he chokes out.

“I fancied myself in love with you. It’s since become painfully clear to me that what I felt then was mere fondness, because what I feel _now_ is so much stronger. I didn’t know you then as well as I ought to, and now that I do, I am in awe of your goodness. You are so much more than I ever gave you credit for.”

Even though a blush darkens Castiel’s features from his forehead down to his neck, he doesn’t break eye contact with Dean. His words and his eyes are dual instruments, working in tandem to convey the utter sincerity of all he says.

“I don’t understand,” Dean says dumbly, the words sticking like molasses to his tongue. This is a dream. A strange, wonderful dream that will crush him when he awakes from it, surely. “You can’t… You don’t… _Me_?”

Cas’ answer smile is bitter, and if Dean’s not mistaken, that bitterness is directed inward instead of at Dean. “I can and I do. And yes you, always you. I— I didn’t think you could ever… I’m a _king_. _Your_ king. You were just going along with it because you felt no other choice, or perhaps did not mind so much since there are favors to be won from being the king’s lover. I’m sorry if I ever did you the miscredit of thinking you so mercenary. Even if you tell me it’s true, I still regret thinking it. You deserved better.

“And when I came to that very conclusion, that you deserved to be more than a body for my own use and amusement, I did what I thought was right. I sent you away, to a place where you would be free of the shame of having been the king’s lover. No one here need ever know, and you and your brother could start new, better lives. Never mind what I was losing in the arrangement, I only meant to make things better for _you_. How utterly I failed in that regard…”

He sighs, but does not stop long enough for Dean to form a single coherent thought, let alone a reply.

“I was an ass, to take from you so greedily and then to send you away so dismissively. I never treated you as the person you are, I never thought it relevant to tell you my reasons and give you a choice. And I never dreamed someone as lovely as you could ever care for a man like me. If there was one thing I wish I could change in all this, it would be telling you how I felt before sending you away, so that at least then I might have known, we _both_ might have known—”

Dean can bear it no longer. Dream or not, he cannot hear such words and not respond. He rushes across the room, the five, ten strides necessary to close the gap between them. Cas’ eyes go wide and does nothing as Dean grabs him by the collar and yanks him the rest of the way.

They’re kissing before he knows it; it’s the same, but oh so different. Rougher, full of a different type of need than the lust driven nights of long ago. This is baser, stronger in force, and all consuming.

There’s no coming back from this.

“You love me,” Dean nearly spits the accusation as he continues to dive in for kiss after kiss. “You love me and never said a damn word, you _bastard_.”

“Yes,” Castiel gasps in agreement.

Not caring for more talk, Dean’s lips claim Castiel’s once more.

This time is already a stark contrast from before. It was always Cas who took the lead, even if Dean initiated sex; it was an unspoken thing, that Castiel was in charge. Dean was pliant, ready to be used, and gave himself over so willingly that he need not even think.

Today, Castiel makes no move that Dean doesn’t force. Oh, he kisses Dean back eagerly enough, but it is Dean who drives the pace. It is Dean who takes of Castiel’s space, forces him back against the door. It is Dean who first lets his hands wander to touch.

He dodges Cas’ caress. It’s not that he doesn’t long for such attention, craves it more than he dares think about, but he can’t bear the thought of Castiel uncovering all that’s been done to him. A declaration of love is a wonderful thing, but it’s so new and fragile Dean won’t risk seeing disgust in Castiel’s eyes as he traces over scar after scar. Let him enjoy this first before he worries about that.

“Dean,” Castiel gasps when Dean finally breaks the kiss to suck a bruise under his jaw. “Dean, please, I—”

“I love you, you idiot,” Dean growls. “You sent me away like I was nothing, and maybe I hated you for it, but that didn’t change that I’d rather have you, king or not. You were the only one who’s ever noticed me. Who’s ever seen _me_ , though I’m thinking you see me a whole lot better now than you did before. You made me _feel_.”

As he talks, he shifts their hips far enough apart to make room for his hands. His fingers are clumsy as they untie their britches, shaking all the while, but he has a single-minded determination to free them both from the confining fabric. He will _not_ confess his love without showing it as well.

“Dean…” Cas’ voice is a pitiful whine, undignified and completely unbefitting a king. And Dean caused it, will continue to cause it if given the chance, and he will revel in the miracle that this man is a king for all others, but to him he’s simply Castiel.

There’s no more room for words, for thought, as Dean takes them both in hand. There’s not even a spare moment for more tangled lips or a tender embrace, it is simply the two of them moving quickly towards completion, together, for the first time in ages. Dean’s seen Cas in the throes of pleasure before, but then he’d somehow managed to maintain control and a regal air. Now he pants and gasps for air, whispers half-formed words begging for release or praising Dean’s beauty, his character, _him_.

It should hardly be a surprise that neither lasts long.

He collapses against Cas, forcing their full weight against the door so quickly it creaks in protest and threatens to buckle. Too over sensitive, too overwhelmed, Dean whimpers as he buries his nose in the long, curling hairs at the back of Castiel’s neck. The musky smell, one he’d nearly forgotten, is more comforting than he can say. He breathes it in, again and again, and wishes he never has to pull away.

 _Do I have to?_ he thinks lazily. _Who’s to tell us where to be? For the moment I’m master of this castle, and Castiel’s the damn king. No one can tell us what to do if we do not wish to do it. Not today._

Giddy in a way he hasn’t felt since the king first took an interest in him, Dean bangs heavily on the door. Cas startles slightly, but Dean shushes him gently.

“Yes, sir?” comes a confused voice from the other side. A guard or a squire, perhaps (Dean doesn’t recognize the voice), but it matters not for the moment.

“The king and I will take our breakfast in my room today. And likely lunch as well. Have someone from the kitchens bring up food and drink for us both, please.”

The door muffles any chance at interpreting the tone of the answering “Yes, sir,” so Dean doesn’t bother trying. Let the castle talk. There are far worse things they could say of Dean. Of Castiel, even.

“Breakfast _and_ lunch?” Cas’ tone is teasing. “You plan to keep me for yourself that long?”

“Longer, but that will do for now.” With no little amount of reluctance, he pulls away from Cas and surveys the mess between them. “We should clean up before we eat. We’d give the serving girl quite a fright if she saw us like this.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, and they move awkwardly as they try to find kerchiefs to do just that. “Dean—”

“We have more to discuss, I know,” he interrupts. Much to discuss. The events of this morning add a new caveat to all the things that already demanded their attention; questions, one after the other, rise in Dean’s mind too fast for him to truly take stock of them.

But now, he thinks, they have the luxury of time, and it’s a luxury he’s keen to make use of.

“But shall we put it off at least until midday? I would like for once to enjoy your company during a meal without any other distractions hanging over us.”

Cas hums in approval, hesitates, but then reaches forward to pull Dean into a quick, chaste kiss.

It’s possibly the best kiss he’s ever had.

“I would like that very much, Dean.”

— fin —

 

**Epilogue**

Dean and Cas don’t leave Dean’s bed chambers for the rest of the day. They do indeed spend a great deal of time talking, sharing things and asking questions and all in all marveling that they _can_ do those things. There are arguments of course, most notably about Dean’s burned letter, but there’s also shared joy to be found in getting to know each other.

After a small meal at midday, they’re exhausted. They doze off in each other’s arms, which is of course where they wake up hours later. Needless to say, the novelty of waking up together is enough to arouse both of them. It starts gently enough with Cas chastely kissing along Dean’s jawline as he strokes a hand through Dean’s hair. It does not end nearly so chaste; within moments, Dean pulls Castiel on top of him and takes his pleasure from the king’s body.

Sated once again, it leads to more talk. This time, there are more promises and endearments than before. It is not all fixed, it is not magically all forgotten, but they are determined to make things work.

~ ~ ~

There is much to be settled in regards to Alastair’s holdings, and Castiel is loathe to make any decisions without counsel. He has those present at the castle, and Inias has joined them there as well, but this is no longer a local matter; his decisions here will affect the rest of the kingdom, and he cannot take any action too lightly.

It is determined that he shall return to the capital with Inias and a retinue of men of Dean’s choosing.

“And you, of course,” Castiel whispers so that only Dean can hear. “You are always welcome in any place I call home.”

Dean blushes at that (he’s not used to such open affection, from Castiel or anyone else), and tries to casually dismiss it, even if he is quite pleased to know the king’s words have wider reign than their shared bed.

Bobby, Victor, and several others are chosen to make the journey, while others still are left to manage the castle’s affairs. Castiel’s impressed how smoothly things run given there’s no system in place that’s at all like those he knows. When he considers how these people came together under Dean’s leadership for an actual rebellion, he’s less surprised; Dean’s done well to establish things here, and it shows.

Sam travels with them, but only as far as Rowena’s school. He is in fact committed to returning, especially now that he knows his brother is not only safe but in Castiel’s care. They have each thanked him in turn (Cas with genuine sincerity, Dean much more begrudgingly), and he’s pleased to see they are happy. He has great hopes for the two of them. He has but brief knowledge of the king and how he was without Dean in his life, but already he can see he’s less burdened and smiles more; with Dean, the change is more obvious and even more pleasing to him.

When they depart, Sam is completely certain he will see more of the king and his brother together, sharing stolen glances and secret smiles.

~ ~ ~

Anna is at the gates waiting for Castiel when he returns. He grimaces when he sees her there. He loves his sister and values her opinion more than anyone’s, but he does not look forward to the scolding he’s not doubt about to receive.

Dean notices Cas’ reluctance, the way he’s unconsciously slowed his horse’s pace, and nudges him with his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow in question; Castiel offers a weak smile.

“That’s my sister,” he mutters as he nods towards her. With her fiery hair and noble garb, there’s no mistaking who he means. Dean sees her, sees the familiar look of royal displeasure that’s nearly identical to Castiel, and snorts.

“She at all like Sam?” he asks.

“Yes. Worse, because she’s _my_ sister. It’s always worse when they’re your own sibling, I think.”

Castiel looks so much like a scolded child that Dean has to bite his lips to keep from laughing. It’s adorable, to see a king so thoroughly put in his place by his little sister.

When he dismounts and greets Anna, he has no idea what to expect. Anna doesn’t seem sure either, with hands clenched into fists and a dangerous yet unreadable look in her eyes. What she finally does surprises them both: she leaps forward and pulls him into a hug.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” she says, barely loud enough for Dean to hear. “I heard what happened, and feared what might happen if the king should show up at a peasant revolt. And with nothing but your personal guard! You’ve always had too much heart, I knew you wouldn’t take proper care of yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says weakly, his arms wrapping around his sister.

Dean feels like an intruder on a private moment and tries to back away. As soon as he even moves, though, he catches Anna’s eye. She pulls away from her brother and eyes him curiously. It’s not hostile at all, but it is unnerving.

“You’re him, then?” she asks. She doesn’t clarify what she means; Dean doesn’t bother asking her too.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She makes a face at the “ma’am.” Dean makes a note to never call her that again.

“So you’re the reason my brother’s been a complete wreck for the better part of a year?”

He shoots Castiel a shocked look—it’s still hard for him to think that Cas was at all devastated by their separation, especially since he imposed it—but immediately forces himself to meet Anna’s gaze. “… Yes?”

She stomps forward and pokes him sternly in the chest with her finger. “You’d better be worth it. He broke his own heart, fool that he is, but I won’t tolerate you purposely breaking it a second time. Understood?”

“You have little need to worry about that—”

“ _Understood?”_

Dean swallows. “Understood.”

At that, she immediately relaxes. “Good. Now let’s get you both inside. I want to hear everything you left out in your letter, Cassie. And I want Dean and the other guests to get a chance to relax before the meeting with the council tomorrow. I fear handling Alastair was far too straight forward. Tomorrow we deal with the monster that is bureaucracy.”

~ ~ ~

Needless to say, Dean and Castiel spend the night in the king’s chambers. It’s Dean’s first visit there, though he’s imagined it on many occasions.

Having the king on his knees before him, writhing in the silken sheets, seeing the look of pure adoration in Castiel’s eyes… the reality far exceeds his expectations.

~ ~ ~

The privy council meets after breakfast the next morning. They eye Dean curiously enough that it’s clear some rumors have circulated about him (or old ones have resurfaced), but they wisely don’t comment. These are the king’s men, after all; nothing is to be gained by belittling his paramours.

The council is briefed on all that has happened. There’s some muttering at the means of Alastair’s execution, but none of them object to his death at all. Dean’s admittedly surprised by this. He’d gotten the impression that lords and lordlings such as these all stuck together, supported each other regardless of character or merit.

That is clearly not the case.

“We will need to install a new lord,” Castiel says after all else has been said. “Are there any suggestions? Candidates who might make the transition easiest for all involved?

He looks around the table, an open invitation for any to speak up. No one does… until Bobby clears his throat and takes it upon himself to start off the uncomfortable business.

“You can pick someone from the area. Another lord who already—”

“There’s no one I can award the land without creating an imbalance of power in the region,” Castiel says, his interruption firm but somehow gentle enough not to be an insult. “The parcels of land and the established relationships between those in charge of them is such that there’s no possibility for infighting amongst the nobles there. If I were to choose any of them, even the weakest, it would create conflict, which would only make an already difficult situation worse for the peasantry. Stability is key here to make sure there’s no faminine, no poverty, no want.”

“You can knight a new lord,” Victor suggests. “Again, someone from the area would do best since they know the people, the circumstances around Alastair’s—”

“Bad idea,” Anna says. “It has to be someone of noble birth or the other nobles will be upset. Not just the locals, but throughout the kingdom. It sends the message that people can rise up against their lord and become lords in their place. Even though it is obviously more complex than that, that is absolutely how it will appear. Or at least how it will be construed.”

The suggestions go back and forth, and Dean grows more and more uncomfortable. An idea in the back of his mind won’t leave him be. It’s a dangerous, silly idea, one that he’s not sure he wants to see to fruition, but it must be said.

“So basically we need a landless noble from the area,” Bobby says with an exasperated tone. “Gee, you wouldn’t happen to have any of those lying around, would ‘ya?”

Dean groans before he quietly interjects, “I’m of noble birth.”

The silence that follows that announcement is deathening.

“What?” Anna asks. “Did you say what I think you said?”

All eyes are on Dean, he can feel it though he refuses to look up from the table. “I’m of noble birth,” he repeats. “On both my mother and my father’s side. Old nobility, too old to be worth more than our name, and even that’s worth so little I’ve worked in kitchens all my life and we had not more than a small tenant farm to call home.”

“Your name,” Anna prompts. “What is it?”

“Winchester,” Dean says. “And Campbell on my mother’s side.”

There’s an audible gasp, enough to cause Dean to look up. He sees baffled and skeptical faces all around the table, save for Anna and Castiel. They both have recognized the names, that much is clear, and Dean begins to fret about Cas’ reaction. Will this change things? Did the king only ever want an underling who he could influence into—

“Then it’s settled,” Cas says decisively. His voice wavers just so, barely enough to notice if Dean weren’t so intimately familiar with him. “Alastair’s holdings will pass to Lord Winchester, a landless lord who has proven his loyalty to the people of the region and his fealty to the crown.”

Even Anna doesn’t object, and the conversation shifts to logistics. Dean hears none of it, too busy trying to process what he’s done.

What _has_ he done?

~ ~ ~

“Lord Winchester,” Castiel huffs into Dean’s ear that night. They’re alone, blessedly alone in the darkness of Castiel’s room once more. It’s dark, only lit by a struggling fire, but Castiel’s close enough that Dean can make out every line of his face. “I very much like the sound of that.”

“Don’t tease me,” Dean grumbles as he tries to turn away. “You and I both know I’m no lord.”

Castiel guides Dean back underneath him, uses his free hand to stroke Dean while he spreads Dean’s legs. Even though he knows what’s coming, he gasps when he feels Castiel’s cock push into his loosened hole.

“You are more a man than half the lords I know,” Castiel says in a tone that will allow for no argument. “You will make a wonderful lord, and I greatly look forward to being able to say ‘I told you so.’”

Too overcome by the obvious pride in Cas’ voice, Dean kisses him to distract him. “Shut up and fuck me,” he growls. “Your _majesty._ ”

Cas laughs at that, but he’s only too happy to oblige…

~ ~ ~

Dean is glad that he cannot instantly become this landed noble he’s now expected to be. He insists that the castle be destroyed and rebuilt, especially if he’s meant to live there. Anna is exasperated at the cost, but when it’s pointed out how much wealth the estate brings in, she sighs and allows it.

“It’ll give us some time to teach you some manners, I suppose,” she says dryly.

For the next few months, Dean spends his time in the capital learning all that he needs to run an estate. It’s a lot, and it’s often overwhelming. Whenever he feels he’s not up to the task, Castiel’s there to reassure him and help him relax.

But eventually Anna feels he’s learned all he can in the castle, and she arranges for him to spend time with each of the nobles around his new estate. The estate will of course take several more months to build, but he can’t hide in the capital.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it properly,” she says sternly. “Castiel is responsible for your success or failure for having picked you for this position. Do him proud.”

The lovers’ farewells are bittersweet. They knew they would not be able to stay together forever, no matter how well things have been going. The separation is necessary, not simply because of their position as king and new lord, but as the first test of their budding relationship. They’ve grown too close, too dependent upon each other. It’s not practical, it’s not sustainable, and they need time apart to remain who they are.

Or so they tell themselves. It’s a lot harder to remember those reasons as Castiel stares longingly at Dean’s departing carriage. Dean’s no better off in that carriage; he feels that he’s a fraud, a peasant in fine clothing taught to feign nobility he’s never felt, never wanted, and without Castiel’s presence there to back him up, it will all fall apart.

Luckily for him, Anna is strict but merciful. Charlie is Dean’s first stop, and the Lady of Moondoor Castle is the perfect friend for Dean to convince him that he does, perhaps belong. While the other nobles he visits after that are perhaps not quite as openly friendly, he knows he has at least one ally in the area aside from Castiel.

~ ~ ~

It comes as no surprise that when the new estate is finally ready for Dean and the staff to come in, that Castiel is among those in attendance that first week. They are slightly more surprised when they see that Dean and Cas actually do part ways at the end of the night, Dean to the master bedroom and Castiel to the opulent guest room down the hall.

What few people know is that there is a secret passage connecting those two rooms. A passage that Dean and Castiel make use of every night Castiel is able to stay.

~ ~ ~

It is here in this new castle, one that is meant to be Dean’s, that Castiel finally gets to see Dean’s scars.

In all of their previous love making, Dean’s steadfastly refused to undress. He always has a shirt, his pants barely out of the way to allow his cock free. Castiel has not wanted to push, but it’s more and more obvious to Dean that it hurts Castiel to be kept at arm’s length. He will never say anything, doesn’t feel he has the right to after all that has happened, and it in turn hurts Dean to know that Castiel still feels terribly guilty for all that happened.

That first night in the new castle, as they kiss heatedly in front of the fire, Castiel’s hand dips under the hem of Dean’s shirt. His reaction is instantaneous. He jerks away and pushes Cas’ hand away as if it’d burned him.

The king’s face is etched briefly in the pain of rejection, but he quickly forces it into something neutral. He will not pressure Dean, not ever again, as they both well know.

It’s then that Dean realizes that, despite being dead over two years now, Alastair still hangs over him like a shadow. It is not Dean’s fault that he bears the marks of what was done to him, and in his heart he’s forgiven Cas for the part he unwittingly played. The only people who are harmed by his reluctance are himself and his beloved, so why does he continue?

With shaky hands, he unbuttons his own shirt. Feels his skin heat up with embarrassment as he slowly removes his pants as well. He cannot bear to look up and meet Castiel’s eye—what if there’s disgust there? or worse, pity?—until Cas gently nudges his chin up.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “You’ll always be beautiful. These are badges of your courage, your strength. I love them as I love the rest of you.”

Dean nearly bursts into sobs at that, collapses against Castiel and cries silently. Eventually, he allows Cas to urge him down onto his stomach. He gasps and shudders as Cas proves how true his words are, kissing, licking, caressing, worshipping every inch of his skin, whether marred or unmarred.

When his tongue works on Dean’s hole, Dean thinks he might die of sheer bliss, but all too soon Castiel pulls away and helps him turn over so that the same attention might be given to his chest, his shoulders, his navel, his legs… He leaves Dean’s cock for last, as Dean well knew he would, and it’s such sweet relief when Cas takes him into his mouth. The fingers he uses to rhythmically fuck into him are nearly too much, especially when Dean’s sure he’s never felt so much in his life.

He comes with a weak cry, truly exhausted and spent. There is no resistance, no pulling away as Cas continues to kiss him until he falls asleep. Dean sleeps well in his lover’s arms that night, and he wakes up feeling lighter than he would have expected.

Apparently some burdens are harder than others to let go, but that does not mean they cannot be.

~ ~ ~

After that, Dean proudly displays his scars. To Castiel of course, but if anyone else should see when he pulls him a sleeve or removes his shirt while working on a hot summer’s day, then they are welcome to look. He has nothing to hide, and he no longer fears anything.

~ ~ ~

Dean doesn’t like being a noble.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He likes that it allows him to provide for the people around him and the freedom it gives him, two things he’s never really had in life. What he doesn’t like is being _treated_ like a noble.

People serve him meals. They do their best to cater to his needs, doing things he can do perfectly well for himself. It’s strange, and he has a wild impulse to tell all of them to _stop_ on numerous occasions. But he doesn’t, because these are people in his employment. If he told them to stop, if he got rid of their positions, they would be without work. No gold to feed their families, no roof over their heads, and a desperate need to find a new position. Dean’s been there, seen his mother and father struggle to make ends meet, and he can’t in good conscience do that to others when it is well within his power to prevent it.

So he endures the tailors who fit him regularly with new clothing, the maids who launder his clothes, the stable hands who insist on brushing his horses for him. He even takes in more servants whenever his coiffers allow, even if only for part time work. What does he need with extra money, anyway? He’s lived on a single meal a day (or less, if times were hard and Sam needed it more) and a single change of clothes. He’s more than willing to cut back if need be, especially if it’s the difference between his comfort and a family here going hungry.

But he does take up some hobbies. He learns to breed, ride, and train horses. He even learns to hunt, though he’s terrible at it at first. These are the types of hobbies allowed to someone of his station, and there’s admittedly hard work involved in each that will keep his mind occupied and his body in shape.

(And of course the cooks are absolutely scandalized whenever they catch Dean in the kitchens, sneaking off with apples or— _gasp!—_ making himself a snack.)

~ ~ ~

At first Dean doesn’t notice it. The gifts of flowers, exotic chocolates, fine clothing, they’re quite sweet of Castiel to send him, but he doesn’t understand the significance. Even when these come paired with moonlit carriage rides and invitations to beachside vacations, Dean doesn’t understand the significance of it.

It’s only when a lush bouquet of roses happens to be delivered while Charlie is visiting that he finally understands.

“Who are those from?” Charlie asks with obvious enthusiasm. “You didn’t tell me you had a suitor!”

Dean freezes as he puts the stems in a vase. “What?”

“A suitor! You must have one, to get flowers like this! Whose eye have you caught? What lady sent these? Or was it a lord. Granted, that’s not as common, but it certainly would be permissible since you have a younger brother to take over the estate.”

Dean isn’t quite listening. He’s too busy recollecting every gift, every public sign of affection the king has ever made towards him. He compares it with what he knows of courtship, and he sees they are indeed far too similar for him to be at ease.

Because of the rather… unusual nature of their relationship and its start, Dean had never anticipated more than clandestine meetings and stolen moments together. Declarations of love where one thing, something they could share but keep secret. This is…

This is public.

“What’s wrong?” Charlie frowns now, ducking down to where Dean’s gaze has fallen so he will actually see her. “Do you not like your suitor?”

“I love him.” His voice cracks slightly. “I just didn’t realize he was courting me.”

“Who is he?” she asks gently.

“The king.”

Charlie’s eyes widen briefly in surprise, then darken in annoyance. “I should have known as much. Well, if you’re glad of it, I am too.”

Dean is, though he’s a little shell shocked. He somehow manages to wait until he next sees Castiel in person, then asks far too bluntly over dinner, “Are you courting me?”

“I should think that was obvious,” Castiel says wryly. “Is that not okay? I can of course be more discreet—”

“We can’t marry.”

Castiel sighs and nods. “I am aware of the law, some of which are too old even for me to dare change. But we can be together, publicly. Many kings and lords have taken lovers, and it’s never mattered who they are or if they both be men or both women. If you’d like to be together in a more formal manner, then that is an avenue available to us—”

“Yes,” Dean breathes out. “I would very much like that.”

~ ~ ~

It takes some time for their complete, perfect ending to come about. Their homes are close, but not so close that they can see each other as often as they would like. They have duties, each of them, and it would not do to neglect them.

For his part, Castiel is too dedicated to the throne and his people to step aside as king, at least not until he’s sure there’s a suitable replacement. Anna has made it clear time and time again that she will help, but damn him she will _not_ take over as queen. She didn’t fight for the crown, not like he did; she fought for a quiet life with a loving husband, and she means to keep it.

It’s only when Samandriel comes of age that Castiel can even begin to think of it. Even then, he waits to make sure Samandriel (and Anna) are comfortable with it. Abdicating the throne and passing it too soon might cause problems. It takes years of careful orchestration, but finally it happens.

Castiel steps aside, Samandriel is coronated, and then Castiel is free to disappear and live his own version of paradise.

Coincidentally, this happens about the same time that Lord Winchester purchases an estate in the mountains. Something small and remote, where only a minimal staff will be necessary. His younger brother takes over, doing justice to his brother’s work and the family name.

Though it is but a rumor, it is widely agreed that Castiel and Dean lived happily ever after, together and in love until their dying day.


End file.
